


Azdak

by Temve



Series: Irdakverse [6]
Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Prequel Trilogy
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Clones, F/M, Force Ghost Qui-Gon Jinn, Fucking Machines, Irdak - Freeform, Kid Fic, M/M, The Force Ships It (Star Wars), Zabraks (Star Wars)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-16
Updated: 2021-02-01
Packaged: 2021-03-14 07:46:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 24,863
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28791918
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Temve/pseuds/Temve
Summary: The Republic finds itself with an army of teenagers and desperate to avoid a war. Irdak finds himself unmoored and also grounded, again.
Relationships: Obi-Wan Kenobi/Other(s), Padmé Amidala/Anakin Skywalker, Qui-Gon Jinn/Obi-Wan Kenobi
Series: Irdakverse [6]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1974295
Comments: 14
Kudos: 12





	1. Scattered Spray

**Author's Note:**

> _Azdak_ translates to “cross-current”, following Irdak as he is forced to learn to control his newfound ability to feed and abstract life force to and from others, while the currents of Light and Dark clash and intermingle both within and around him. 
> 
> In keeping with this as well as with Irdak’s no-longer-so-hidden depths, the chapter titles are somewhat random oceanography-related terms this time.
> 
> This picks up immediately following the events of _Kaz Stathdak_.

According to the _Dikaiosyne’s_ on-board day-night cycle, it was probably some time in the wee hours of the morning. The Coruscant sun had done her the favor of setting a short while ago, and the ambient light in the Senate office building had dimmed down to its after-hours setting, which meant Padme probably looked considerably less rumpled to the casual observer than she felt.

She had managed to snag a handful of minutes towards the end of the journey to clean up and make herself presentable, but all told, Anakin’s services as a handmaiden had left something to be desired. 

Well, no.

If Padme was brutally honest, his, uh, services had left _nothing_ to be desired except ‘more of the same please, now’. 

He just wasn’t any good at doing _hair_.

The familiar scent of her chambers enveloped her like an old cloak, and she felt her body relaxing as she palmed the door shut behind her, dropping her travel case with a soft thud.

The two-way window in the side wall of the deserted antechamber flickered into transparency, and a familiar chai-skinned face welcomed her with a wry one-eyed smile. 

“Guarding an empty office, Captain?” she said by way of greeting.

“It can hardly be called empty with you in it, can it, your Excellency?” Typho’s smile softened as he stepped through the doorway into the antechamber. “Good to have you back.” He had to visibly restrain himself from touching his employer’s shoulder, but the relief in his features was palpable, and Padme would have had to employ considerable diplomatic acting skill to hide her answering smile. 

She didn’t bother.

“Apologies are in order, I suppose,” she said, “for the suddenness of my departure. I take it you weren’t far behind in tailing my Jedi detail, though?”

Typho snorted in amusement. “Those communiques could have cut durasteel, Senator. Let’s just say I’m glad I don’t have to liaise with the Jedi Temple on a daily basis any more for the time being… and I hope young Skywalker isn’t being treated too harshly for his part in this… unsanctioned mission?”

Padme laughed, a brief melody of mirth in the dimly-lit chamber. “Knighted is more like it, actually.”

Typho gaped, taken aback. “So it’s true then? You were… actively involved in breaking up the Separatist summit?”

Padme shook her head ruefully. “As much as a civilian can be. Mostly, I was making friends with local bar personnel and holding the comm lines open, which Padawan Skywalker tells me I am considerably better at than a random toilet bowl.” She paused, but Typho did not gratify her with a suitably puzzled response, only a puzzled expression. “Anyway, yes. If Ana - if Padawan Skywalker had been in need of a glowing reference from a junior Senator, I would have been in a perfect position to give him one, but it looks like he’ll be just fine without that.”

The wistful look in her eyes did not escape her seasoned security chief. “Good working relationship?” he asked cautiously.

She nodded decisively. “I doubt they’re going to reassign him to little old me after his elevation but… let’s just say right here and now that he’s got blanket permission to occupy my schedule whenever. And if I forget to pass that one to Dorra, will you be so kind as to remind me please? Sorry, my head’s been a bit… full lately with all this…” she waved a hand airily, “Separatist stuff.”

“I won’t bother you unnecessarily, then.” Was that a smirk? Padme caught herself wishing her handsome security chief had at least half as good a sex life as she had recently come into. 

“Thank you, Captain. I shouldn’t be too long… just a bit of catching up on the comms and then I’ll probably retire when the time change catches up with me.” She grinned. “If you hear a loud thud from my office you should probably check if I’ve fallen asleep at my desk again.”

“Wouldn’t be the first time.” Typho smiled. “And just for clarity’s sake: soft snores do not constitute an interventionable situation.”

“Agreed. Good night, Captain.”

“Good night, Senator.”

Padme sat down at her oversized desk and proceeded to resolutely avoid her comm message queue and any other Senatorial business that could wait until regular business hours. She had research to do, on the Sith of all things. The _Sith_. She had to admit she’d previously thought those to be a matter of ancient history and religious lore, of interest only to the Jedi archivists. 

Of course, she remembered the incident years ago that had taken Master Jinn’s life and had been linked to suspected Sith activity, but for those not personally affected by it, that incident had all but faded into obscurity over the last ten years, a blip on the screen of recent history, a conspiracy theory of interest only to, well, Jedi archivists.

Except that given the new information Master Kenobi had shared with her during those few moments on her return journey that he hadn’t been out cold and she hadn’t been... _otherwise engaged_ , it would appear the Sith were worth looking into after all.

_Sith in the Senate_ were the words Kenobi had used. Words he had, allegedly, heard directly from Count Dooku, the erstwhile Jedi Master and planetary ruler who had to all intents and purposes led the Separatist movement until a few days ago and who was now, presumably, occupying a secure cell in the Jedi Temple. All of which lent some weight to those words.

She needed to get into the Jedi Archives, clearly. Which was not exceedingly difficult as such for a Senator, merely unusual. Then again, being a twentysomething bright-eyed junior Senator under the perpetual monolithic shadow of the Supreme Chancellor (aka the Other Senator from Naboo) had its advantages. People didn’t pay much attention to you.

There was a lot of history to read up on. And she dearly hoped that Anakin would be released from the clutches of the Temple sooner rather than later, to assist her in putting it all into context.

No, really, that was what she wanted him for. 

Among other things.

***

“Home, sweet home.” 

Obi-Wan’s voice was gravelly, betraying just how much effort the short walk from the docking bay to their quarters had cost him. With a deep sigh, he dropped his pack on the floor, gave a perfunctory wave in the direction of the blinds, and had flopped in an untidy heap on the bed before said blinds had a chance to adjust to whatever Anakin’s latest pet project in predictive cybernetics had made of Obi-Wan’s unfocused Force push.

Irdak watched mutely as his lover’s eyes were drifting shut, and his exhale just kept going, ebbing to a soft, oppressive silence that stretched for what felt like minutes before his lungs expanded again, admitting the dry recycled air of a room that had sat unoccupied for only a few days but felt uncomfortable, unfamiliar somehow.

_It hasn’t got enough Obi-Wan in it_ , Irdak realized, and the sinking feeling that came with that thought dropped him like a dead weight, as he sat down heavily on the edge of the bed, unsure where to put his hands. Touching Obi-Wan had always been second nature to him - now, suddenly, it felt like an invasion of his beloved’s person, as if his very hands, left unchecked, could further the destruction they had already wrought.

Irdak lifted one hand from his lap, but couldn’t do anything but stare at it mutely, listening to Obi-Wan’s faint breathing, hoping more than anything that he was asleep. 

That he wasn’t dreaming of the pain Irdak had inflicted on him.

They had things to do, places to be - they were _home_ , and _alive_ , and somehow, none of that was sinking in. None of it penetrated the sudden haze of a room filled with ringing silence when it should have been filled with the comfortable sounds of homecoming. Of flying laundry and rattling teacups and soft curses at comm message queues and… messy, greedy kisses.

Right here, right now, the buzz of adrenaline and spaceship engines a distant memory, Irdak could not imagine ever touching Obi-Wan’s lips again without remembering that one time. Without remembering tearing that softness into a grimace of pain. His source of happiness and energy and warmth, his Obi-Wan had become treacherous ground, and right now, right here, he dreaded laying even a fingertip on him for fear of breaking through the brittle exterior and sinking wrist-deep in the raw pain that lay beneath.

Right here, in the silence of their rooms, Obi-Wan’s scream echoed louder in his head than it had been when he had first heard it washing over him, just before Obi-Wan had collapsed at his feet. 

He stared numbly at his hands. Raised them, unthinking, to his head and held his ears, knowing the scream wasn’t coming from outside, but hoping that the pressure would at least help him keep his head together because they had places to be and things to do and Obi-Wan needed him.

He hoped that Obi-Wan needed him. Hoped that Obi-Wan still wanted him after this. When he was in his right mind again.

Right here, in the screaming silence of his - their - rooms, he found it hard to imagine Obi-Wan ever fully wanting Irdak to lay hands on him again. Ever giving in again to the easy play of skin on skin, the messy joyful dance of a more innocent time. Of a more innocent Irdak.

The thought of playfully dominating Obi-Wan ever again (never more than a game, given that Obi-Wan had always been stronger and more physically fit than Irdak despite being shorter) made him feel nauseated, and the thought of never being able to do so again made him feel empty.

His happy place. The Dark Side had taken his happy place. The simple, skin-level pleasure in himself and others that had always been at his fingertips, literally, and everywhere else he could reach. He thirsted for that connection, for the easy swims in blue and green and indigo, wanted nothing more than to give that strand of shimmering life back to Obi-Wan, to make him whole again.

He could not remember ever being afraid to touch. 

It hurt.

“Hey.” 

Obi-Wan’s voice was still thready, but the urgency in it pierced through the haze in Irdak’s head. Pierced through his own hands pressed over his ears. Mutely, he dropped his hands into his lap and let his gaze fall into those gray-green eyes, hoping to find forgiveness.

“Help me sit up?” Obi-Wan asked softly. 

Irdak shook his head, unsure what to say. Sure only that whatever he’d try to say would come out as sobs.

Obi-Wan struggled upright, a hand clamped around Irdak’s unresisting upper arm. “Look at me,” he demanded, quietly but with enough of the Jedi Master in his voice that it would have taken an effort of will to not obey. “Irdak, you clearly haven’t known me long enough for this sort of thing to have become normal. I get damaged on missions sometimes. That’s the life of a Jedi.”

Irdak startled at the touch of Obi-Wan’s hand to his, the warmth of Obi-Wan’s dry skin soaking straight through his own and into the clamminess underneath. He almost thought it made a sound as it did so. Cautiously, Irdak listened.

“And you got damaged too, love,” Obi-Wan continued. “And I think you’re going to need the Healers just as much as I.” His voice dropped to a hoarse whisper. “You’ve fought hard.”

“I hurt you.” Intellectually, Irdak knew that had been his voice that had said that. His brain had served up those words, but the hollow sound did not feel like it had come out of his throat. “I hurt you, when… I love you.”

“Yes,” Obi-Wan agreed softly. “You did, and I’m grateful you did. That you didn’t give in.” 

Irdak felt the hand tightening on his, suddenly aware that his hands had depth and dimension and warmth all of their own.

“I was… fuck, I was so afraid I’d broken you. Touching you is... scary, all of a sudden.”

“How does being touched sound?” Obi-Wan murmured. “I think I can manage that even though I feel weaker than a damn kitten.” 

“One life down, eight to go?” Irdak asked, voice still quivering. The smile pulling at the corners of his mouth felt alien. 

Obi-Wan shook his head. “Probably eight point four or so still in me. Which means you’ve got one point six. Minus whatever the old man tried to take from you.”

For the next long moment, neither man said anything as Obi-Wan leaned his face into the side of Irdak’s, touching skin to skin, not caring that his overgrown hair was getting caught in his beard or Irdak’s horns or that his hands were caught in a pale ivory death grip as Irdak’s eyes overflowed with hurt and relief. 

Obi-Wan suspected the Healers would chew him out for the way he looked anyway. And he hoped fervently that whatever examinations they would have to undergo would not separate them too long. Because feeling the syncopated beat of Irdak’s hearts at skin-level was quite possibly the best restorative available.

***

Irdak was decidedly unhappy with what he was seeing. And not hearing. 

Of course, the privacy screens between the exam bay he was currently sitting in and the next one over _would_ filter out sound; that was, all told, the point of privacy screens. 

If he didn’t have an attentive-looking Mon Cal Healer keeping a large liquid eye on him while taking notes in his file, Irdak would definitely have bolted. 

Obi-Wan’s examination had _looked_ virtually the same as what he had just undergone - various scans and fluid samples performed efficiently and gently by droids, followed by a consultation with a sentient Healer. In his case, that was a female of indeterminate age and a name he’d already forgotten again, and she’d finally had to resort to darkening the privacy screen between his exam bay and Obi-Wan’s in order to get Irdak’s full attention.

There had been talk, much talk, insistent talk, about how what he was going through, the terror, the mood swings, the flashbacks, was normal, and how he _would_ get better even though it may not feel that way at the moment. And how it would involve work, and possibly medication, but she was there to help, and perfectly able to do so. And how his crippling feelings of guilt were merely a sign that he was a being capable of empathy and, by extension, capable of psychological damage.

And how she hadn’t expected anything less from someone who clearly had Obi-Wan’s heart.

That part had stopped him short, and had earned him an encouraging smile and a surreptitious note in his file while she explained that not only was Obi-Wan a frequent customer in the Healers’ Ward, he was also apparently a childhood friend of this particular Healer.

And no, she wasn’t going to let him out until Obi-Wan was done with his consultation because they would likely have to coordinate his therapy with Obi-Wan’s and would he like a beverage or a book while he waited.

Irdak had asked for the privacy screen to be made transparent again, and after a little bit of consideration and a few surreptitious taps at her terminal, the Healer had agreed.

Obi-Wan appeared calm, stretched out on an examination bed, head and upper body elevated to a near-sitting position, deep in conversation with a human Healer who looked easily three times his age. From the slight nods and soft movements of Obi-Wan’s mouth, it appeared the therapy being proposed met with Obi-Wan’s approval; at least there wasn’t anything in his demeanor that spoke of alarm, or even disappointment. 

When Healer Che had joined the conversation, an upright brusque column of blue, Irdak had become slightly worried.

When Master Windu swept into Obi-Wan’s exam bay, arms folded in the sleeves of his tunic and brows grimly commenting everything Healer Che and the old human Healer relayed to him, Irdak had wished for the ability to speed up time, because this was torture and he was fairly certain he was not supposed to undergo torture in his present state.

He had just made up his mind to ask when a soft ping on the terminal stopped the Mon Cal Healer in her note-taking. “Ah, good. They have finished.” A webbed hand on his shoulder stopped him from jumping up. “They’ll be here shortly.”

***

“Irdak.” Healer Che’s face pulled into what Irdak supposed was a smug smile. “While I’m not in the habit of saying that I’m happy to see my patients - I’d prefer that everyone just damn well stay healthy and not keep damaging themselves - I _am_ happy to see you. Mostly because you seem to be the reason I and my colleagues were in a position to see Obi-Wan again at all.”

“I… no.” Irdak swallowed, but was cut off by Healer Che.

“Yes,” she insisted. “Our scans and his account match, so I see no scientific reason to doubt that evidence.” She cast a quick glance at her datapad. “His midichlorians have taken a bit of a hit, and like bone marrow, those take a few tens to regrow naturally, but we are confident he will make a full recovery. For now, we’ve got him on ten days of R&R at home, and after that we’ll talk about clearing him for Temple duties so we can keep an eye on him while he assists the Council with intelligence and anything else that doesn’t involve swinging a lightsaber around quite yet.” A sharp glance at Master Windu, who seemed to inexplicably recoil.

“As for you, Irdak,” she continued, “The unanimous verdict is that we really have no better option but to keep you here.”

“What?” Irdak’s world tilted. _Keep him here?_ And why was Obi-Wan silent?

It was Master Windu, of all people, who had to restore balance to the Force. “What Healer Che means is that _she_ would like to lay claim to some of your time, Irdak. You are being transferred to the Healers’ Ward in a hybrid of your current position as a droid technician as well as -”

“Mace.” Healer Che cut the Councillor off with an exasperated hand wave. “Shorter words. Can’t you see he’s scared?” Turning to Irdak, she looked him in the eye until he met her gaze, then continued, gently. “I’m sorry. That came out wrong. I forgot you couldn’t hear our earlier conversation with Obi-Wan.” She shook her head. “Shows how much I consider the two of you one entity, I suppose. Anyway, you’ll be helping us as we’ll be helping you, Irdak. What that means is we’ve finally gotten it into Master Windu’s thick skull that you need some actual Force manipulation training, especially given what you accomplished spontaneously over there on Geonosis. Master Windu would probably call it ‘keeping you close’ but frankly, I’m excited to have such unformed talent in the body of someone who’s actually old enough to speak in whole sentences.” She snorted. “And keep up the maintenance on our droid staff without futzing around with priority queues and reference numbers and, franky, Master Set. No offence intended.”

“N-none taken.” Irdak smiled shakily. “Though I doubt she’d give me up without a fight.”

“She won’t stand a chance,” Obi-Wan interjected with a weary smile. “Not since the bodily departure of Master Jinn has there ever been a greater nexus of stubbornness in this Temple than the rare agreement of Master Windu and Healer Che.”

“Now then,” Healer Che nodded sharply. “Welcome to the Healers’ Ward, my mercifully not-so-young apprentice. I’ll let you off for now while I figure out your therapy schedule with Healer Bant here, and then I suppose Master Set will need to be informed. Expect to report for duty before the tenday is out - we’ll comm you in good time.” 

***

Irdak couldn’t honestly say how many days it had been, treading water, out of his depth and yet _touched_ and held up by hands visible and invisible. 

Healer Che, who had pulled him up short on his first day and told him to keep his paws clean and his hair out of the way at all times, and who had later complimented him on the dashing sight he cut in his slightly-too-short Healer scrubs and the matching headband that left only the tips of his horns exposed. And then on the quick turnaround of the update to MD-187 who, she was pleased to report, had finally stopped scrambling patients’ names and species IDs because Force knew one 32% Zabrak was enough to deal with. 

And she had slapped him on the back hard enough to make her headtails jerk.

Healer Bant, who had listened to him rant and then listened to him sob and listened to him be silent for long stretches of time. Who had listened to him gasp as he dipped his first toe into the currents of the Force again and who had guided him with firm words and the occasional quip about being an aquatic species and therefore damn well trustworthy when it came to matters of swimming. 

And she had held him in an entirely unprofessional but entirely therapeutic hug when he emerged from his first meditation, winded and blurry-eyed and wildly proud of himself.

Anakin, who had done his best to be a brother in the rare moments he touched down at what was nominally still his home. Formal Trials and Knighting business appeared to take up an indefinite amount of his schedule, and the rest was tacitly transferred to the schedule of one junior Senator from Naboo while he was still reliably planetside. He had also apparently made sure that his “disaster brother’s” pivotal role in the breakup of the Separatist summit was being committed to the Jedi Archives in lurid detail.

And he had given him a stinging high-five and then poked at his own cheeks and pointed at Irdak’s in a clandestine gesture of “I know you’re genetically incapable of blushing but I know that’s what you’d be doing right now, bro”, and he had been incontrovertibly correct.

And, most importantly, Obi-Wan, who had dropped whatever he was doing the moment Irdak came within sight, and just been there. Been there to listen to him talk a mile a minute about some technical doodad and how he had _almost_ cracked its mysteries. Been there to sit in companionable silence over tea and doubtless important work that lay largely ignored on the table or the couch or the floor as Obi-Wan let his hands do the talking. 

And he had kept his promise and touched Irdak. Casually, and with intent. Everywhere, until it became easier again to let it happen, to allow the pleasure of not just a word of praise or a good cup of tea, but of a lover’s touch. He had felt his own courage begin to grow back, slowly, alongside Obi-Wan’s strength. And the first time that he had moved Obi-Wan’s gentle fingertips from the roots of his horns to his half-hard cock, they had both laughed in embarrassed wonder, and Irdak had all but drowned in Obi-Wan’s kiss and forgotten all about needing to come because that didn’t matter one whit in the face of what he was feeling.

Irdak couldn’t honestly say how many days it had been, treading water. However, treading water, as he realized some day between Day 1 and today, was one way to ensure one wasn’t drowning. It was a beginning.

***

“Yes, I am certain that is her legal name. Well, birth name.” A pause. “Oh.”

Obi-Wan scratched his beard while he listened to the tinny explanation at the other end of the comm line. 

“Well,” he said finally, “that makes some things considerably easier, I suppose. Yes, we have met. She should remember my name... Do extend the invitation please, and ask her to contact me via text channel only. It’s supposed to be a surprise. I can’t promise I can scrape up the funds for more than one person to travel… no, the Jedi Order sadly does not provide for that, this is out of my own pocket but I’d be a terrible Master if I didn’t at least try… yes, please do. I would love to hear back sooner rather than later so I can make sure she has the necessary passage, and enough time to make it to Coruscant comfortably… yes, understood. Thank you so much for your assistance, sir.” 

More tinny verbiage of the slightly more mollified sort. Obi-Wan was sure his smile would not survive the interplanetary comms line intact, but he smiled anyway.

“Thank you again,” he said firmly. “Kenobi out.”


	2. Depth Contour

The rumors started spreading around the Jedi Temple about forty-eight hours in.

Now, typically the Jedi weren’t given to gossiping about the inhabitants of the few windowless rooms in the very center of the complex, the tall walls and Force-shielded architecture effectively obliterating the presence of those temporarily held in them, on their way towards swift judgment by civilian authorities, or exile, as the situation may warrant. As far as most Jedi were concerned, these rooms might as well not exist, and those in them _did_ not exist in them long enough to be a concern. 

Except when they were singing.

Force-shielding was one thing; however, the Jedi community learned fairly quickly that their holding cells were in fact not soundproof. A reassuring fact certainly, obviating the need to imagine painful goings-on inside, but a confusing one when one of those held appeared to insist on passing the nighttime hours - which even in a bustling hive such as the Jedi Temple on Coruscant were quieter - in an almost unbroken string of full-throated song, often repeated and varied, as if they - he, judging from the rich baritone - used the measures of long-remembered songs to keep time through the night. 

The Master Archivist was among the first to raise a concern; not being privy to Council matters or classified missions, Jocasta Nu had been alerted to the new presence by the spike in lookup queries for a certain set of song lyrics, followed with disquieting frequency by assorted usually younger Jedi showing up at the Archives and actually singing at her. 

She had, of course, discharged her duty as Master Archivist flawlessly and directed them to the various materials available on the known corpus of traditional balladry from Serenno, as well as related secondary materials, and the occasional sound recording from the more completist documenteers of generations past; and it took one particularly insolent Padawan telling her to her face that the Archives would be incomplete without this particular rendition and pulling out her commlink and playing her a surreptitiously made recording clearly marred by the presence of a shielded durasteel door and a nervous Padawan’s fingers fumbling with the sleeves of her robe until Master Nu fully realized just what she was dealing with.

“I would recognize that voice _anywhere_ ,” she had insisted to the hapless Council page, and Master Windu’s ears were still ringing from the stinging diatribe about inappropriate measures of secrecy when it came to former members of the Order when the best course of action, in her opinion, most certainly involved re-immersion in the bosom of the Temple and, most assuredly, the Force, and what were they thinking cutting him off from all sentient contact to the extent that he had started singing the ballad of _Hasden the Insane_ to mark time through the night? Did they know what that song entailed?

In true Jedi Council fashion, they had admitted to not knowing about the specific contents of the ballad of Hasden the Insane, and immediately declared the utter unimportance of that lack of knowledge in the grand scheme of Galactic politics. Master Nu had left fuming.

“I get it, Qui-Gon. You’re not the first to give me an earful about this. Inside or outside of Council sessions.” Obi-Wan-sighed. “I wish I could do something about it, but honestly, I can’t. I’m not even on the Council, and sometimes I feel like the only reason they tolerate my presence in all this is because, well, I was there for most of what happened. Combined with the fact that I’m still convalescing and pretty much useless for anything else.”

//Never useless, Obi-Wan.//

“Try telling Master Windu that. He’d love to send me out to start cleaning up the mess, but even he is grudgingly accepting the fact that I shouldn’t be doing that while essentially _being_ a mess myself.”

//Obi-Wan.//

“What?”

//Stop that. You’re doing the Force’s work, and that must be enough.//

“I’d be tempted to say ‘yes Master’ but I’m fresh out of sarcasm.” Obi-Wan sighed. “And I worry about Irdak.”

A moment of quiet while Qui-Gon’s presence flickered into a thinner smear of blue, as if reaching out to the far corners of the Temple for connection. //All seems well, given the circumstances?//

Obi-Wan nodded, lips a thin line. “I suppose I find myself resenting the fact that there are _circumstances_ to consider. Was I ever this way with you?”

//What way?// Warmth, concern in the voice in his head, and Obi-Wan found himself resenting that too. 

Obi-Wan sighed. “I think I’m developing an understanding, possibly for the first time ever, why the Jedi Order discourages attachment. Seeing him in pain makes it really hard to focus. And the Force can only take so much of my unbalanced emotions at a time. Without him asking why I’m spending all my time in meditation when I’m not busy being ignored by the Council or… being with him.” A pause. “It never felt this hard, with you.”

//It wasn’t,// Qui-Gon replied. //Possibly because we both knew what we signed up for as Jedi. Possibly because you were younger and more trusting. But Irdak has the best possible help available, and thankfully he’s not too stubborn to accept it.//

“Bant and Healer Che are -” Obi-Wan found himself cut off by an impatient wave of Qui-Gon’s hand that almost went right through his own, narrowly avoiding being a physical slap.

//You,// Qui-Gon insisted. //Bant is doing her job, and Healer Che is doing what she can to shore up his sense of self-worth, and Force knows that’s hard work for her too. But you are why he is even still here, Obi-Wan. And I have no publicly shareable words for anyone who would put ‘service to the Force’ over that kind of bond. Take it from me, being part of the damn Force does give you a whole new perspective.//

“I’ll wait on that, if that’s all right with you.” The smile on Obi-Wan’s features was weary. “And look at me enabling all sorts of unsanctioned family bonding. The Council would be livid if they knew why I’m monitoring the arrivals board at the commercial spaceport right now.”

//Why that is any of their business escapes me.//

“Lately I feel like anything I do is their business,” Obi-Wan grumbled. “Although I’m beyond pleased to hear she will be coming. Add another soul to the disaster family, I suppose.”

//Never a disaster, beloved. And I’m only sad that she won’t be able to see me. I liked her. Being a Force entity is a drag sometimes.//

“Like when they keep you out of certain Force-shielded cells?” Obi-Wan raised an eyebrow, recognizing a sore spot when he saw one. 

//Now that is just barbarism. This kind of solitary confinement is counterproductive at the best of times, but for a Force-sensitive? It’s like they are trying to _actually_ make him disappear, dwindling his presence to nothing until they can quietly sweep up the ashes. One of their own!//

Obi-Wan had the distinct impression that Qui-Gon dearly wished for functioning salivary glands so he could spit on the floor. 

“Formerly of their own,” he countered softly. “We don’t know how much of a danger he poses, Qui-Gon. How much of the Dark Side is in him, and how little of the Jedi. Irdak’s experience certainly doesn’t inspire much confidence here. I know you knew him differently but- ”

//And they won’t even let me make an attempt! The master-apprentice bond is worth nothing to them over the din of their precious doctrine. Attachment is worthless, the Dark Side must be confined at all cost, and any information or indeed any thought residing inside the head of one who does not fully follow the tenets of the High Council is suspect at best and toxic at worst.//

“You believe he can be saved?”

Qui-Gon shook his head grimly. //This is not a matter of saving, Obi-Wan. ‘Saved’ implies a moral high ground that the Jedi can’t lay claim to.// A long silence. //But yes, I believe him to be not lost to us. If we got the opportunity to even reach out.// 

A frustrated groan. //Apparently, in my case, dying has done absolutely nothing to improve my standing with the High Council.//

“Tell me about it,” Obi-Wan rejoined wearily. “Sometimes I wish we were better at knowing what to do with a victory. I mean, we have to all intents and purposes broken up an organization that would have plunged the Republic into a full-scale war, and what do we do? We _debate_ what to do next, for fear of losing even an iota of the precious influence we’ve built with the Senate. Like we’ve become politicians! We’ve got the names and signatures of the offenders on file, we’ve got the Trade Federation and the Techno Union and whoever else quaking in their boots, bending over backwards to assure the Republic that they had been tricked into this and would never etcetera, and we can’t even decide what to do with the thousands of teenage soldiers we suddenly find ourselves in command of? Who were _built_ for us, supposedly?” He pinched the bridge of his nose. “Safe to say I’d have a million questions for Dooku too. If they’d let me anywhere near him.”

//For the Jedi to command an army… not something I would have been able to imagine in a lifetime.//

“Exactly. It’s been like pulling teeth to at least get consensus about employing some of them in civilian functions, provided they show aptitude. Which, frankly, none of us has any clue about since we didn’t know they even _existed_ until a few tens ago. But hey, we get to meet them at least. Or the handful that the Council has graciously allowed to employ as Temple security during the ‘observation phase’. Maybe those kids will let you sneak closer to your old Master’s cell.”

//I will have you know I do not _sneak_.//

“Precious little choice without a body, do you?” Obi-Wan sobered. “Sorry. I keep picturing you smuggling yourself inside in the pages of a book or some romance-novel crap like that. Anyway, rest assured you’re not the only one with concerns. You have the formidable Master Nu on your side. And me, next time the Council decides to give me two consecutive minutes of speaking time. And now,” he finished as he got up with a groan, “I have an appointment to keep at the commercial spaceport. You’re welcome to accompany me, although the nature of our guest would mean you’d essentially be thin air to her. Sorry.”

//Stop apologizing, Obi-Wan. You’re doing your best. I will go haunt Master Windu’s conscience some more, shall I?//

“Be my guest, Qui-Gon. Good luck.”

***

He had of course sent a picture ahead, seeing as he had virtually nothing in common with the Padawan Kenobi who had trailed in the wake of the tall imposing Jedi who had sailed into the Skywalker homestead ten years ago and, soon after, left with its youngest inhabitant and promises of a bright future.

Personally, he’d had his doubts that any image file would have made it intact through the crummy shoestring that passed for a publicly available commercial comm line on Tatooine; as it was, he’d had to have every single message relayed through a place called Tosche Station, and he suspected that said message relay actually involved someone getting on a pack animal and physically delivering it to the Skywalker home. 

The Lars home. Right. Obi-Wan was not the only one who had had a change in circumstances, of course. Privately, he wondered less about whether Shmi would recognize him and much more about what her reaction to seeing her own son after ten years would be. There was very little of the curious round-headed little boy left in him, except for the occasional mischievous glint in his eyes.

He needn’t have worried about recognition issues. The moment the gate doors slid open to disgorge the latest gaggle of transport-weary visitors to the Galactic hub, he knew exactly whom he was looking at. 

Shmi hadn’t changed one bit. She was, arguably, doing her best to hide her disorientation at her surroundings, but that expression of slight bewilderment and concern, followed by a smile that could only be described as a loosening of her features in relief - that was exactly what she had greeted him with ten years ago. 

“Master Kenobi, right?” She shifted her pack slightly, deftly sidestepping Obi-Wan’s outstretched hand and offer of assistance. “Thank you for the invite, sir.” The brightness in her eyes was almost metallic, and more than a little liquid. 

“I am so glad you were able to come.” Obi-Wan found his voice deepened and his hand involuntarily straying to steady Shmi’s shoulder, and if he didn’t know that Qui-Gon was off haunting the Council, he would have suspected Force shenanigans. 

_Then again, I’ve got long hair and a beard now, and a Padawan named Skywalker. Who am I to claim that I’m not following in his footsteps?_

“I’m sorry that your welcome committee is a little… pitiful,” he said with a smile as he ushered her into the waiting droid-driven hovercab. “But this _is_ supposed to be a surprise so I hope you’ll be all right spending one more night tucked away in a hotel before the big family reunion.”

“Family,” Shmi replied with a wistful smile. “I have often thought of you as that, yes. For Anakin, I mean.”

“We do our best. It’s not always what we imagine, and more often than not it’s not what the Jedi Order would have imagined, but… I like to think we haven’t completely ruined the fine young man you so graciously handed over all those years ago.”

“I can’t even imagine… Anakin, a _man_. A Jedi Knight.”

“That he is,” Obi-Wan replied with a warm smile. “And a fine one. Taller than me too.”

Shmi laughed. “No way of telling that, for me, with no father to look up to. And how is Master Jinn? Surely he hasn’t been outgrown too?”

Obi-Wan found the subtle darkening of his mien reflected in Shmi’s face before he could stop himself. 

“Oh no,” she said hastily. “I’m sorry.”

“You couldn’t have known,” Obi-Wan reassured her hurriedly. “Besides, it’s not… it’s complicated.” A tortured smile crept onto his features. “What would you say if I told you that yes, Qui-Gon was indeed killed shortly after you met him… but he is very much still part of the family? And that I get harassed by a blue translucent version and a less-than-half-Zabrak version of Qui-Gon Jinn on a regular basis?” He rubbed a hand across his face as if to wipe away a headache-inducing grin. “And that it’s hell when they team up with Anakin?”

“I would say,” Shmi replied cautiously, “that there is clearly much I don’t know about the Jedi.” She turned a weather-worn smile on Obi-Wan. “But now is not the time to stop trusting you. For one thing, I will need your help navigating this… _city-world_. Oh, and before I forget among all this glamour and noise, my husband expects me - well, you - to comm Tosche Station with my expected return date so he can send Owen to get me at the spaceport.”

“Duly noted.” Obi-Wan smiled. “Won’t let your Coruscant family cause your Tatooine family to worry. But first, we have a Knighting ceremony to get through. Well, no. First, we have a good night’s sleep to get through. Follow me please. It’s not the most impressive of accommodations, and probably still a lot louder than what you’re used to, but...”

“I will happily lie awake imagining meeting my Ani tomorrow,” Shmi answered. “Sleep can wait.”

***

Several days into what was to all intents and purposes his third career in just under two years, Irdak was very much still finding his feet. And no, the curt reassurance from his new mentor that they were usually reliably to be found at the end of his ‘overly long legs’ wasn’t being helpful. Bant had warned him in one of their first therapy sessions that working with Healer Che was, in some ways, more akin to working with one of the Temple’s droid staff, at least when it came to abrasiveness and efficiency and what appeared to be her utter immunity to anything cute or small. 

Overall, Irdak had been surprised by how much of the work in the Healers’ Ward was actually being managed by droids. With hindsight, it made sense; the sheer variety of sentient species living in or passing through the Temple district made it virtually impossible for a biological brain to contain the encyclopedic wealth of information necessary to discern health from sickness, and to discern the causes that led to a specific patient going from one to the other. 

Well, broken bones were an exception, he supposed. Then again, having a droid colleague who was able to tell, at a glance, what part of the patient constituted ‘bone’ and what configuration it _should_ be in was absolutely invaluable. Most of the diagnosis work, medication administration, and basic surgery was actually being performed by the droid staff, and consequently the number of mechatronic colleagues was quite high compared to the number of sentient Healers. 

To his surprise, the sentient Healers routinely treated their droid colleagues as more than just useful repositories of data and strong mechanical arms; in the course of his first few days, he had learned more droid names than sentient ones, and found that the droids actually responded not only to their serial numbers but also to the amusing array of nicknames they’d been given by their sentient colleagues to distinguish them from one another. 

Three days in, he found himself chatting with his droid colleagues before shutting them down for maintenance or necessary upgrade work, and had to actually restrain himself from telling MD-355 (or “Pike”, as it was known locally, after its main task of collecting samples via an array of syringes) that this wasn’t going to hurt a bit. 

The other, and much more daunting, part of his new job bled seamlessly into his limited experience of meditation with Obi-Wan and Anakin, and his therapy sessions with Bant. Sentient Healers - of which he was now considered to be one - were tasked mostly with the minds, souls, and life force of those who came to seek their help; after all, droids didn’t have much of a bedside manner, and any conditions with a mental or psychosomatic component simply couldn’t be managed satisfactorily by something that didn’t have a mind or psyche.

Which was how he found himself crouched over the sickbed of a small dark-skinned female humanoid, tiny slack hands cradled in his, and Healer Che’s authoritative fingers cupping both their hands, adding unyielding blue-skinned support to his efforts.

“Reach out, Irdak. Cast your Force sense wider. And tell me what you see.”

Irdak screwed his eyes shut, willing himself to give his field of vision over to the currents. Reluctantly but swiftly, the swirl of blue and green and indigo washed over his consciousness, stretching in all directions, his own mind trembling with the effort of keeping himself above them.

“I’ve got you,” Healer Che said quietly. “Also, you’re buoyant in the Force. Really.”

Irdak took a deep breath and let it out, consciously relaxing his hands, arms, shoulders. _Float. I know I should be able to._

“Tell me what you see, Irdak.”

“My feet,” Irdak said, sounding incredulous. “Blue and green currents wrapping around my toes. Should be ticklish but isn’t.”

“Wider.”

“Misty. Like my eyes are wet. Same colors all the way to the horizon, which… you have no idea how good that feels. Oh, and… something small and hard bobbing up on the surface. Also blue but… white-blue, if that makes any sense.”

Healer Che hummed appreciation. “Can you touch it?”

Irdak reached out, his physical fingers stretching inadvertently. “Icy,” he said, wonder in his voice. “Hot inside though… and I have no idea how I even know that.”

“Trust the Force,” Healer Che replied. “Now, you have an ocean of it. Not much warmer than the icy surface of your patient’s Force presence, but much, much larger. Channel some of your ocean’s warmth into that ice shell. Go on. I’ll help if you have trouble.”

Irdak had no idea how to make the currents do his bidding. What he did know, though, was that they would carry him, so maybe if he maneuvered his astral feet closer and allowed some of the currents that were currently not tickling his feet to bump up against the ice shell…

Irdak shuddered. All right, his astral feet may not be able to feel ticklish, but the cold from the ice around the child’s Force presence was tangible. 

“And you are melting a hole into it.” Healer Che’s voice was steady and possibly pleased, it was hard to tell with her. “Good. Keep it up. Let some of your currents feed hers.”

She wouldn’t have had to say anything. Irdak could feel the white-blue orb hungrily latching on to the darker, warmer blues bleeding into it, and for a moment he shuddered at the sheer strength of its pull.

“It’s all right, Irdak. Let her feed. I’ve got you. The Force has got you.”

“Where… where does it come from? I mean… where does mine come from, that I have so much to give?”

Healer Che laughed for half a second. “The reason you have so much of it is because it's not yours, Irdak. Your mind has learned to feed off the currents that surround you, powered by all living things. And there’s a lot of Force in a place like the Jedi Temple… we kind of threw you in at the deep end, if that makes sense.”

“It does… in a way.” 

Healer Che snorted. “Living with Obi-Wan and Anakin must be wild in terms of sheer Force presence. But don’t worry about ever running out, Irdak. As long as there are life forms, there will be an ocean of life force for you to swim in.”

“That is… good to know. Really good.”

“M… murt?” 

Irdak’s eyes flew open at the unfamiliar voice, and he found himself stared at by a pair of small dark orange eyes in a tired-looking brown face. “You’re not Murt,” the child said, dubiously.

“You got that right,” Irdak replied gently. “I’m, uh, Healer Irdak. Welcome back to consciousness, little one.”

***

Obi-Wan noticed the change in his lover too, Irdak’s Force presence solidifying with each passing day, tighter and more blue, to match the scrubs he now came home wearing (and which, all told, looked better on him than the mechanics’ screaming orange overalls). His eyes, too, were settling back into a clearer, calmer blue, and he was walking taller again, with an easier stride that reminded Obi-Wan, on a blood level, what had made him fall for the man in the first place. 

Absurdly, the kisses they stole between their respective busy schedules of work and therapy and Council meetings felt like the ticklish novelty of fresh love again, for all that they’d been together for a good two years now. _Civilians would have a child on the way by now_ , Obi-Wan thought.

And yet here they were, watching Obi-Wan’s strength grow back a tiny bit with each passing day, watching Irdak’s confidence slowly returning. Obi-Wan relished seeing his lover discover a new side to his sexuality, uncovered through therapy and still fresh and tender: that of the recipient of pleasure. Not the giver of pleasure (that he had been adept at as far back as he could remember), not even the taker of pleasure (plundering Obi-Wan had become a specialized skill of his very quickly), but the one who of necessity had to lie back and accept what was given to him.

Obi-Wan _loved_ being able to undo Irdak with a word or a well-placed touch, and Irdak responded beautifully to the filthy promises murmured in Obi-Wan’s assured, cultivated voice.

“I will make up for lost time, my horny one. _Hard._.”

***

“Enter.” The voice was best described as unctuous. Befitting a Senator.

He didn’t cut as impressive a figure as she had imagined; then again, she had seen enough in her young life to know that appearances were deceiving more often than not. Had he been tall and muscular and wearing body armor, she would have discounted him as a threat immediately. 

“Senator Palpatine?” She dipped her head in the merest approximation of a bow, the gray tattoos trailing from the corners of her mouth lending extra grimness to her features.

“Please. Let us not stand on ceremony.” The old man in the burgundy robes rose briefly. _Considering Naboo fashion, this would count as menacingly understated._ A chair, propelled by a casual Force nudge, bumped against the back of her knees like a puppy begging for attention.

“I prefer to stand,” she replied evenly. “Ceremony is optional. What would you prefer I address you as?”

Palpatine smiled a slow, oily smile. “Considering your _lineage_ , I think you may be able to guess. You were raised in the arts of the Nightsisters, almost spoiled to perfection by a Master Jedi, summarily abandoned by the Order, and now find yourself approaching the one remaining pole of the realm of Force use.”

“I am an assassin,” she replied curtly, “not a mystic.”

“And you are being contracted to assassinate…?” The sentence hung in the air, unfinished.

“My contact was not very forthcoming on that part,” she replied. “Feel free to fill me in.”

“My dear Miss Ventress…”

“Asajj. Please.”

“Asajj. I am tasking you with the elimination of a Dark Lord of the Sith.” Palpatine paused for effect, but did not get the satisfaction of a reaction from the bald assassin. Sighing, he pulled up a holographic image of the target, and continued.

“A pathetic excuse for a Sith, I hasten to add, since he has managed to get himself captured by the _Jedi_. His name is Darth Tyranus, better known as Count Dooku, and he is currently being held in their Temple, in a Force-shielded facility as I am told. Which means he might as well be dead to me. Let us make sure that he gets to actually be that way, shall we?”

“This is where I don’t get to ask about your motives?” Asajj said with a tight smile.

“I was rather expecting you to jump straight to your compensation,” Palpatine relied. “But I will admit they are somewhat connected.” He sighed theatrically. “Darth Tyranus has become a liability. As a former Jedi, the Temple is… not an ideal place to see him inhabit. In fact, the world of the living is not an ideal place to see him inhabit any more. And…” he turned his eerie smile on her with full force, “I may find myself with a vacancy for an apprentice. If you succeed.”

“Darth…?”

“Sidious. And do not presume that this knowledge gives you any sort of leverage, young lady. I have disowned and dismembered for far less. And you, Asajj, child of Nightsisters and former Jedi Padawan, are still only at the beginning of your career. Although you may find yourself choosing a Sith name for yourself sooner rather than later if you truly are as good as your reputation suggests.”

Asajj shook her head, letting her jumbled thoughts fall into place. “I may be your best bet, Sen… Master Sidious. Collateral an issue?”

“Whatever _you_ are comfortable with. I expect clean evidence of a successful hit; any additional deaths are on you.”

“Good.” She smiled savagely. “I might just enjoy taking out some Jedi along the way. Did you have a preferred method for infiltrating the Temple in mind?”

“As a matter of fact, yes.”

The bolts of Force lightning took Asajj completely by surprise. As she felt her body giving out under the sheer onslaught of raw, concentrated pain being channeled up her nerves to her brain, she couldn’t help the spark of excitement that jittered somewhere in the electrical storm of searing agony. 

_Sith. Real. Me._

Moments later, an alarmed Senate aide several levels down punched in the emergency comm code for the Jedi Temple’s community medical team because, as he described it in a shaky voice, he had just seen somebody hit the ground _very_ hard.


	3. Breaking Waves

“Surprisingly few broken bones, wouldn’t you say, Apprentice Healer Irdak?”

Looking over Master Che’s shoulder at the latest arrival’s vitals file, Irdak couldn’t help but pick up on the fact that she had used his full title (missing only his last name which was reserved for truly dire circumstances). Which meant this was likely a test.

He scanned through the x-rays and exam records, then stepped closer to where the patient lay in the fading grip of general anesthesia, her ashen skin barely marred by bruising, sutures covered by neat bacta patches, and only her right hip and the shoulder on the same side still visibly splinted.

“Do we know how high that fall was?” he asked cautiously, because he simply wasn’t sure the obvious was what Healer Che was looking for. “She does not appear to have been conscious when it happened because her wrists and ankles look fine, and I would have expected… reflexive, uh, defensive injuries if she’d jumped rather than been dropped cold.”

Healer Che shook her head slowly, expression unreadable. “Sadly, we don’t have that information, but the building she likely fell from is in the Senate district, Avenue T-41. So probably pretty tall. Anything else?”

“Well… yes. I assume you’ve set me up with this one because… she’s part Zabrak?”

Healer Che smiled. “Dathomiri according to the preliminary scans.” She raised an authoritative blue hand as if to forestall Irdak’s objection before he could voice it. “Now, I know that even if you were related you wouldn’t remember anything about it, and I am well aware of the population size of the colony on Dathomir, but… might do her good to see a familiar-looking face when she wakes, Irdak.”

“Understood,” he replied with his most professional Healer smile. “As long as you don’t make me responsible for every Zabrak hybrid who causes trouble around here.”

“Far be it from me. One of you is quite enough trouble.” Her smile belied her abrasive words, and Irdak settled into the chair beside the patient’s bed with his current project, an endoscope droid that had lost one of its degrees of freedom and tended to curl in on itself like a pathetic mechanical tentacle. He hoped the nameless patient wouldn’t mind him spreading his tools on the small bedside table, but he had his doubts about the likelihood of flowers or sweets showing up in this one’s room any time soon.

Shaving your head was probably just a style choice… but those grim gray lines flowing down from the corners of her mouth were speaking loudly in a language that wasn’t mere Zabrak. Anyone getting that kind of tattoo meant business, and their business usually involved saving themselves the trouble of doing all the grim frowning oneself. 

The first words she uttered when she woke amply confirmed his suspicions.

“...the fuck is this place?”

“Ah, you’re awake.” Irdak extricated himself from the endoscope droid’s innards and rose to inspect his patient’s status. The vitals monitors were beeping merrily, and a pair of very pale blue eyes was staring daggers at him. 

“You’re in good hands, madam. You’ve been picked up by the Jedi Temple’s community medical team. My name’s Irdak, by the way. Looks like you took a nasty fall… but you’re a tough one and -”

“I know,” the woman growled. “Sith.”

“Thankfully not,” Irdak replied with a shaky smile. “Anyway, you’ll be pleased to hear that you’ve suffered only two fractures, here,” he gestured at her hip under the covers, “and here on the very tip of your shoulder, and we should be able to see you walk out of here right as rain in a few days.”

“Painkillers?” She narrowed her eyes. 

Irdak raised his eyebrows in surprise. “I can request some, certainly. How would you rate the pain you’re experiencing, um, on a scale - “

The woman grunted impatiently. “I don’t _want_ any, you sad excuse for a male. Did your squishy Jedi friends put me on any, is what I want to know? How much pain can I expect to be in when I break out of here, kid?”

“Depends on whether you cross Healer Che’s path, I suspect,” he replied sweetly. “Her tongue can be quite cutting. Anyway, I don’t recommend checking yourself out quite yet, because we’ve still got you lined up for a free trip through our fancy brain scanner, and consciousness is a definite bonus for that. Besides, I was busy fixing it until about an hour ago, and I’d love to see the inside of your head in full color.”

“Careful what you wish for,” the bald woman growled. “You might get images of the insides of your own head in full color. Mostly blood red. With those pathetic little horns smashed in.”

“I’ll see myself out, then, shall I?” Irdak gathered his tools and the half-assembled droid as quickly as possible and made a mental note to stop by the mind healers on the way to inform them of the new arrival’s rather rabid violent tendencies.

***

“Like she fancies herself a Nightsister or something.” Irdak stretched luxuriantly, shucking his mildly stained scrubs in the process. Obi-Wan looked up from his food prep, an appreciative smile playing on his features at the sight of all that acreage of lean tattooed flesh. “Guess you meet all sorts in this job. I’m sure that’s Master Che’s idea of a joke, setting me up with this one.”

“I take it she wasn’t enchanted by your presence?” Obi-Wan asked cautiously, only vaguely familiar with what a Nightsister was.

“Violent fantasies of smashing my head in,” Irdak replied. “And rude enough to voice them out loud. I mean, I suppose it makes for a nice change to the usual subliminal anti-Zabrak sentiment I get from some of the more closeted cultures, but… let’s just say I prefer the children’s ward.”

Obi-Wan dropped his knife and wiped his hands on the rag slung over his shoulder before advancing and wrapping his half-naked lover in a hug, trailing absent-minded fingers over his tattoos and running a hand through his hair, still short enough to stand up on its own but getting perilously close to flopping over his horns.

“I bet the little ones love you. Qui-Gon used to complain they would climb him like a tree whenever they got the opportunity.”

“Well, most of the ones I meet are in no shape to climb anything,” Irdak replied with a chuckle that vibrated through Obi-Wan’s chest. “But yes, tattoos and horns are a marvelous distraction when someone is terrified of Pike and its needles. Or just lonely and missing momma.”

“Mmh. And I bet those famously large and warm hands don’t hurt either.” Dinner forgotten, Obi-Wan seemed wholly intent on getting Irdak to lose his ability to speak in coherent sentences. As Obi-Wan’s questing fingers wiggled inside the back of Irdak’s waistband, tickling the sensitive skin of his lower back, he shivered in delicious anticipation.

“Not unless you want them to,” he purred, swatting Obi-Wan’s backside gently.

The laugh he got from Obi-Wan for that warmed his hearts.

***

“I came all the way across the galaxy for _that_?” Shmi’s eyes danced with mirth as she embraced her son, rising on her tiptoes to do so. “‘Confer on you, the rank of Jedi Knight, the Council does’?” 

Anakin guffawed involuntarily, the imitation of Yoda’s speech mannerisms coming from his mother of all people filling him with helpless hilarity.

“We’re not big on ceremony here,” he laughed. “Feel free to disregard all of that because I’m sure you’re still adjusting to… to having to look up at me.” He shook his head, laughing again, and wondering for a second if maybe laughing through your own Knighting ceremony was considered inappropriate according to the Jedi Code. “Force, it’s good to see you.”

“And you.” Shmi beamed. “Gods, look at you. A Jedi Knight. My Ani, a Jedi Knight.”

“I know… sounds weird, right?” He knew he was babbling, but honestly, he couldn’t care less. This was his moment, and someone in his devious disaster family had seen it fit to bring his mother into it, and he had been wobbly with a disoriented kind of joy ever since he’d first seen her, tucked almost out of sight behind Obi-Wan’s steady brown-robed presence and Irdak in his most formal (read: skin-concealing) outfit.

And Padme. That had been another shock, certainly, and Shmi’s incredulous reaction when she found out that the bristly young handmaiden she’d met in the middle of a sandstorm all those years ago was now a _Senator_ had only been eclipsed by her incredulous reaction when she found out that said Senator was romantically involved with her son, and evidently quite smitten with him. 

She had enjoyed getting to know her son’s Coruscant family, crowded as they were on to the few seats available in the Skywalker/Kenobi quarters (with the exception of Master Jinn who, at least according to what she was told, enjoyed hovering somewhere behind Obi-Wan’s left shoulder and beaming all over the proceedings), and catching up with ten years of mutual history. Padme had done her best to make her feel at ease in the company of such illustrious people, the horned young man attached to Master Kenobi - Irdak, that was his name - had busied himself rustling up enough semi-matching teacups for a party of five, and Master Kenobi had dutifully gone off to comm Tosche Station with her expected arrival date, seeing as Anakin had been put on an immediate mission rotation by a greedy Jedi Council and was due to ship out the next day, much to Padme’s and Shmi’s chagrin.

There had been banter about what to do with Anakin’s severed apprentice braid, and an impromptu conspiracy to add it to the cut-off dreadlock of Irdak’s that Obi-Wan had taken to wearing as a bracelet, well-concealed under the tight sleeve of his undertunic, and laughter about how Master Kenobi’s family life was worn close to his skin, and also held together by improvised wire wraps, which everyone present seemed to think was entirely appropriate.

She had been just about to say something complimentary about the bright red concoction Irdak had manifested in what appeared to be the top half of a thermos flask when Obi-Wan reappeared with a decidedly un-festive frown on his face.

“Tosche Station is not responding.”

***

On a scale of zero to ten, she would probably rate it a six. In other words, manageable, if not indefinitely. The limited range of motion in her right shoulder would be a bit of an impediment but she’d assured herself of the efficacy of the splint in keeping her bones in the correct configuration, and any screaming from damaged flesh she could deal with.

The splinted hip mostly had her walking extremely stiffly, which given her surroundings would not attract any attention whatsoever. The hallowed halls of the Temple made her skin itch with hate, and the quicker she got this mission over with the better. 

_And if I leave a couple of Jedi stiff along the way, I’m not going to shed a tear._

She’d managed to steal something resembling clothing on her way out of the Healers’ Ward at least. Her weapons, though, had been a dead loss.

Given her physical impediments, the direct route would naturally be preferable, but her knowledge of the Jedi Temple’s architecture was rudimentary at best, gleaned from what little was publicly available, and a long time ago at that, because Darth Sidious had not given her any time to do her research. Still, there were certain constants to consider when it came to Force-shielded holding cells - near the center of gravity of the building, away from major utility arteries - and, once she got physically close enough, the shielded durasteel doors shone like small dark voids punched into the squirming fabric of the Temple’s overall Force signature. 

She allowed herself one pass along the _intended_ entrance to those cells, stalking stiffly along the row of unmarked doors, guarded by a bored-looking set of near-identical security personnel who, interestingly, did not appear to be Force-sensitive. Which made it easier for her to slip one of their holstered sidearms into her own hand in passing, without having to raise a finger. Not that she didn’t have to be sneaky about it though - there were plenty of Jedi swarming around even in this otherwise unremarkable section of the Temple since being close to its center also put it on the way from Point A to Point B for many of its inhabitants. 

Still, it wasn’t like she was going to go in through the front door, even under ideal circumstances where she would have had the equipment or physical fitness to deal with multiple durasteel doors.

Closed-off rooms deep in the bowels of the Temple. Housing sentients. Which meant, at a minimum, ventilation and plumbing. For the sake of her barely-healed injuries, she hoped the ventilation shafts were wide enough to admit a skinny Dathomiri woman. She hated having to resort to plumbing.

Had her hip not been compromised, she would have been tempted to sink into a meditation pose in the middle of the corridor just to mock the Jedi. As it was, she stopped dead in her tracks, making everyone walk around her, closed her eyes, and listened for the flow of air behind the walls.

***

“Hey, Herder?”

An affirmative beep from MD-187, occasional herder of patient records, answered Irdak.

“Did our Dathomiri guest get bumped up to an earlier time slot for the brain scan? She shouldn’t be up and about quite yet, with that broken hip of hers…”

A series of what could only be described as puzzled sounds emanated from the medical droid, followed by a brief burst of synthesized speech. “Negative. Negative on presence in Healers’ Ward.”

“Sith,” Irdak swore.

“Negative,” Herder responded dutifully, but Irdak was already jogging down the hall to alert the first senior Healer he could get his hands on to the fact that one of their patients had checked herself out against medical advice and was probably limping her way around the City being a risk to herself and others.

Fixing droids, all told, had been a much less stressful job. _This is almost like being a Jedi._

***

Asajj spared a split-second thought of thanks for the hubris of the Temple’s architects - even the air ducts were grand and generous, though sadly less than clean. Grimacing at the dark trail of freshly dust-free durasteel she was leaving behind her, she pushed herself forward on her hands and knees, favoring her injured side and keeping her senses on high alert. If she had read the space correctly, she should be able to all but parade past the entire set of shielded cells from above, giving her plenty of opportunity to identify her target before striking from the least expected angle. 

If she wasn’t in so much pain this job would definitely have rated as fun. As it was, she had adrenalin and pain-tinted rage to keep her going for a little while, and anything else would be for her to consider _after_ a successful hit. And she was getting close. 

The visibility through the air vents wasn’t stellar, but her Force sense told her all she needed to know: the first cell she came to was simply unoccupied. As was the second. The third housed a sleeping Togruta male with a bandaged hand and a string of saliva dripping from his slack mouth. _Disgusting._ The fourth was empty again, and she was just beginning to curse her choice of approach when the fifth greeted her with a softly sung serenade.

_Whoever is in there is awake. And oblivious. And a damn fine singer._

The voice matched the description of the target - older, human, male - and when she peered through the ventilation grating into the featureless room, the inmate’s physical appearance did too. _Got him_.

Of course, her preferred method of bringing the Force to bear on the target’s windpipe would be doomed to fail given the shielding surrounding this room; on the other hand, it gave her the decisive advantage of not having to confront full-on Sith powers. And while the target appeared to be able-bodied enough to be _singing_ , she was _armed_.

Most importantly, she was where he wasn’t looking. Above him. 

Smiling grimly, she cocked the unfamiliar blaster. In the event that the bolt wouldn’t go right through the grating, she would have ample opportunity for a second attempt after knocking the grating out. She didn’t mind at all if her targets looked her in the eye when she took them out, but the element of surprise was too good to pass up. She might be out of sight before they even noticed what had happened. 

A bright bolt of white-red energy shook the walls of the air duct. To Asajj’s amazement, the grating had indeed deflected the bolt enough to make it go wide, and she could clearly see where it had melted a crater into the durasteel wall right next to where a pair of angry brown eyes was staring up in her general direction. _Good, I can see you now. No more damnable architecture in the way._

The sheer volume of the noise, when it hit her, made her trigger finger twitch and cause the second shot to go wide too. She cursed under her breath, then had to catch her breath because the air around her was vibrating and it took her a dazed second to realize that it was not some Temple alarm system she had set off but the concentrated power of the Sith Lord’s voice.

Sure enough, the yelling had had its intended effect - the door burst open and two armed guards ran in, followed by a determined-looking Jedi, lightsaber drawn. She toyed with the idea of taking out the Jedi but realistically, that one wasn’t a threat to her where she was. The guys with the blasters were, and it took them less than a split second to align those blasters with the prisoner’s outstretched hand and open fire. 

Realistically, she had one shot before the whole air duct would either catch fire or contain a dead assassin, and she watched in exasperation as that one shot, aimed perfectly at the prisoner’s throat, embedded itself in the solid torso of one of the wildly careening guards instead.

Swearing under her breath, Asajj pulled herself out of range of the blaster fire that was now searing the air behind her, adding heat and pain to an already searingly painful escape. 

The dry air of Coruscant at the end of the ventilation shaft was a balm to her singed ego, and it was only her determination not to wind up in their medical ward again that stopped her from just letting herself drop to an ungrateful ground. She would have to lie low for a while before trying again. But she knew her way around now. And a small-scale gas grenade wouldn’t be hard to get hold of.

***

“Do you or do you not have an available time slot, Healer?” The Jedi’s face brooked no argument, and even though Irdak was not familiar with them, they almost certainly outranked him. 

“I… well, I do. One of our patients regrettably vacated one, but… this is a _brain scanner_ , Master. Standard procedure is to wait until the individual in question is at least conscious - “

Their little standoff over the gurney with a decidedly not conscious member of the Temple security force was interrupted by Healer Che bursting through the door, headtails flying. “I came as fast as I could! Sorry about the - “ She took stock of the situation. “I’ll handle this, Irdak.”

“But… he’s…”

“Dead,” Healer Che pronounced after one quick look at the body with the crater-sized hole in his chest. “I can see that. That’s why he’s here for autopsy. Thank you, Master En-Edu, we are fully briefed and will report our findings to the Council. You may leave.”

The grim Jedi sketched a bow and stalked out of the hallway, leaving Irdak alone with a dead guard and a frowning Healer Che. 

“I hate it when they bypass protocol,” she remarked sourly. “As if carrying a lightsaber gave you an in-built right of way. Anyway, this is a matter of some secrecy so I don’t think I can let you tech this one, Irdak.”

“Master Che.”

“What?” One hand already on the gurney, Healer Che looked increasingly irritated at being interrupted in her duties.

“I _am_ Master Kenobi’s… partner.” He swallowed. “And as such privy to the nature of this young man.” He shook his head, smiling sadly. “If anything, he’s a distant cousin. Born in a vat, like me.”

Healer Che’s frown sharpened. “I knew it. Need any more clues as to why the Order frowns on attachments? Force, Irdak, you just…”

“You just landed yourself a tech for this scan.” With an apologetic smile, he took over the steering of the gurney towards his prized brain scanner. “Come on,” he whispered. “I won’t tell anyone else, promise. I want to see what’s still readable too, and that’s going to be less with every minute that passes.”

***

“What does that even mean?” Mace Windu’s voice was tight with barely banked anger. “You _put it there_ , you should be able to tell us what it is and how to get rid of it!”

The grainy projection swayed its long neck from side to side, visibly agitated though none of that was showing in her calm, well-trained voice. “We pride ourselves in adhering to the strictest standards of customer confidentiality, Master Jedi. Be assured you would not want it any other way if a random stranger commed us about the specifications of _your_ cloning project.”

“This _is_ our Sithdamned cloning project!” he yelled, his voice echoing in the Council chamber and bouncing off the tense frowns of a dozen high-ranking Jedi. “You told us as much, and now you’re effectively telling us we’re on our own? This is a biochip, and our Healers tell us that it’s so deeply embedded in the matrix of their brains, never mind encrypted, that there’s no way of reading it without shredding the entire clone. And even then we’ve failed once already.” His glance darted to Healer Che, who nodded gravely.

“Then I would suggest you consult the blueprints Master Sifo-Dyas supplied to us all those years ago. Regrettably, we will not be able to restore these once the project’s lifespan has been exceeded, which is the case for yours, Master Jedi. As far as we are concerned, we have delivered exactly what you specified.”

“Are you saying you are unwilling to fix this?”

“I am uncertain of your choice of verb, Master Jedi. What would there be to ‘fix’? If these biochips are found in the clones’ brain matrix, then they are there because they were requested to be there. And as your Healer so rightly said, removal is not an option.”

“Well, can you deprogram them? These guys could be walking time bombs for all we know.”

“Regrettably, no. As I have been saying, any and all information relating to the programming of these clones is confidential to the customer. I suggest you contact Master Sifo-Dyas, Master Jedi. We will be happy to discuss with him.”

“Master Sifo-Dyas has been dead for almost a decade,” Mace growled. “I suppose the description of whoever impersonated him also falls under ‘customer confidentiality’, does it?”

“I applaud your quick grasp on Galactic privacy law and Kaminoan adherence to such, Master Jedi.” The small face was all smiles. “I look forward to doing business with you again in the future. In the meantime, enjoy your clones.”

The comm line had the temerity to wink out, and Obi-Wan could tell that it took a considerable effort on Mace Windu’s part not to Force-throw the terminal across the room. 

“Great,” he groaned. “Shadowy forces at work, and now they’ve saddled us with a couple of thousand kids with biochips in their heads. Makes your ‘Sith in the Senate’ theory sound positively boring, Kenobi.”

“It’s not so much my theory as - “

“Yes, I know, I know.” Windu cut him off with an impatient gesture. “Dooku’s theory. Well, cover story.”

“You will admit,” Obi-Wan cut in cautiously, “that the attempt on his life would tie in with his being part of a larger scheme. One that is concerned with his being held by the Jedi.”

“One which might,” Windu finished darkly, “have grand ideas of controlling those biochips too. Until we have answers, Masters, I suggest every single one of these clones must be kept confined. We need to guard these guards until we have a lead on how to deprogram them without summarily killing them.”

“Deprogram them? When I don’t even know how these things are programmed, and can’t work that out without going through several tissue samples of freshly _killed_ ones, which is ethically indefensible?” Healer Che fumed. “Masters, you are asking the impossible.”

“Impossible, this may seem now,” Master Yoda said softly. “Trust in the Force, we must. And our combined knowledge. Work to do, we have.”

***

“Deprogram them?” A forkful of food came to a sudden stop partway to a mouth that widened in a grim smile. “They have considered the obvious, I take it?”

Obi-Wan frowned. “I’d appreciate it if you stopped speaking in riddles, Irdak. It’s been a trying day.”

“I know. Sorry.” A tattooed hand rested gently on top of Obi-Wan’s. 

“The obvious?” Obi-Wan prompted.

“Well, yes. They can’t excise those biochips without irreversibly damaging the subjects’ brains, correct?”

“As far as we know, yes.”

“So the logical next step would be to excise access to them. Excise the _memory_ of them.”

“That is what they mean by ‘deprogramming’, I believe, yes.”

“Well?”

“Well what?”

“Surely the Jedi are not above contracting the Galaxy’s foremost expert in memory manipulation? Who also happens to have an illustrious track record in genetics with a sideline of cloning? And the only bobble is that she’s currently serving several life sentences for genocide, plus a few years on top for the kidnapping and attempted murder of one of her esteemed products and one Master Obi-Wan Kenobi?”

Obi-Wan gaped. “Your Maker.”

“Precisely.” Irdak smiled grimly. “I can’t believe I’m suggesting this because there’s no way the Sithdamned Council is going to let me go with you on this one, but… yes. Say hi to Master Windu for me!” he shouted after Obi-Wan who had already run for the comm unit.

*** 

The hours after that comm call had felt like seconds, compressed into a whirlwind of smoke and anguish. The Council had predictably sprung into action after a brief shouting match, and Obi-Wan was due to ship out along with a contingent of hand-picked Jedi before the night was out, to serve a grimly worded conditional amnesty to Jenna Zan Arbor, to be followed by a project outline that was still being drafted in a flurry of messages between the Healers’ Ward, the Senate, and the High Council.

There had also been a message waiting.

Tosche Station had finally responded, in an unfamiliar voice. It had haltingly informed whoever was listening of the Tusken attack on the Lars homestead and the heroic fight that had left Cliegg Lars among the dead and his son an orphan who, the voice continued hesitantly, was staying with the Whitesun family for the time being so that was where he could be reached. 

And so, in between his own preparations, Obi-Wan had had to arrange transportation for Shmi to get back home as quickly as possible while Anakin comforted her as much as possible before his own departure, and Irdak had been left standing aside, wishing he could do more than offer cups of tea and hugs that he wasn’t sure were welcome or appropriate.

_Family hurts, sometimes._

And then, within hours of the dawn, the whirlwind had died down abruptly and left him dizzy, his ears ringing with the silence of their deserted quarters.

Everyone had left on their separate trajectories.

//Not everyone.//

Nodding mutely, Irdak gripped his left shoulder where the ghostly blue hand rested. Half a hug for himself. It wasn’t enough but it had to do.

***

Somewhere in the general shouting match that was the High Council these days, one Master Archivist had made her voice heard, and with the freshly arrived clones now _inside_ the shielded cells, the consideration of at least making their stay as humane as possible had finally fallen on open ears. Pointy green ones, to be precise.

Failing that, she would not have been above mind-tricking the no less green Padawans filling in on guard duty into letting their prisoners at least have access to what she described as the sustenance of the mind, or, to those more inclined to listen to monosyllables, books.

She had turned it into a teaching project for two of her junior Archivists to curate a collection of literature to be delivered to the clone youths in their cells, neatly packaged in a fairly epic file bundle inside a datapad that had had its network connections disabled for safety. She had even ensured the table of contents was as interactive and age-appropriate as they could make it given the shortness of time. 

Privately, she had loaded another accurately de-networked datapad with a specially curated selection of literature and nonfiction she knew the recipient was particularly fond of. They had known each other for decades after all, and gone from classmates to lovers to mission partners to the easy companionship of those dedicated to the search of wisdom through knowledge. Until he had left.

On a whim, she added some of the more recent publications on Serennoan love balladry, including several blog posts discussing his own recent renditions.

On less of a whim and following a lengthy and thoughtful discussion with a Force entity that matched the Archives’ ambient blue lighting perfectly, she had agreed to leave the networking capabilities perfectly disabled but to not include the datapad’s charging station and have it taken outside the holding cell for charging whenever it needed to be. 

And to leave the annotation function wide open.

She had done her research, of course, and had learned by now that the Ballad of Hasden the Insane did not, and had not ever, contained the words ‘Hello, Master’. 

But her eagerness for a response was second only to Qui-Gon’s, and as partners in crime went, Master Jinn was as good as any among the living.

And considerably easier to get hold of.


	4. Ocean Gyre

Having a Council-sanctioned mission as the cause of their enforced separation had its advantages - for one thing, there _was_ a comm connection that Obi-Wan duly activated whenever he could find some alone time in his busy day/night cycle - but that still left their quarters abnormally quiet and empty most of the day.

Which made no sense on the surface, because Obi-Wan was quiet company at the best of times, and only ever really got loud when faced with an overload of youthful part-Zabrak singularly focused on his physical pleasure. Still, one quiet murmur from Obi-Wan as he was poring over a thorny piece of text on his datapad would fill hours of companionable silence, and without it, the silence just wasn’t as companionable. 

Also, Qui-Gon was making himself scarcer than usual, probably on account of working his Jedi wiles to try and get an audience with his imprisoned former Master. Which, all told, Irdak was glad not to be involved in because near-same height or not, he did not see eye to eye about Dooku with Qui-Gon.

All of this meant that in addition to working his usual shifts at the Healers’ Ward, taking the occasional therapy session with Bant, sleeping less than he would have liked, feeding himself from the refectory most days because cooking for one just didn’t seem worth it, and waiting for Obi-Wan to comm, Irdak was alone.

That left a lot of hours in the day/night cycle. With a pair of hands that were as restless as his brain. 

Masturbation had quickly gotten old; he had found himself increasingly disinclined to take solitary pleasure in his body over the past few years, at least when there was no chance Obi-Wan would be able to watch or listen in. In addition, the hot new piece of ‘wearable technology’ he had hastily devised on their return journey aboard the _Dikaiosyne_ had burned out its cheap plastic motor after a single application, and while he loved to joke with Obi-Wan about how standard toys were just not up to providing pleasure to a fully-formed Jedi Master, the joke simply fell flat without Obi-Wan to share it. 

He had consigned the project to the scrap heap, and poked around his ever-evolving collection of random droid parts for an uninspired hour or two when Obi-Wan commed.

After that, he had poked around his ever-evolving collection of random droid parts for all of ten minutes, made a quick trip to his workplace, and summarily took over the table in their quarters, smiling wickedly all the way. 

And no, Obi-Wan would have no idea what he had just inadvertently inspired. 

In all probability, Obi-Wan had no idea that Irdak’s last work project had been an endoscope droid with a faulty motivator. Or that the most difficult - and most enjoyable, from an engineering point of view - part of his current project involved rigging a thigh holster that would function essentially as a set of low-friction rails while remaining resolutely wearable, possibly even over clothes. The last option would really be there purely to watch Obi-Wan’s delicious blush once he had been introduced to what would be riding on those rails, cinched securely around Irdak’s long thigh and looking to all the world (if he got it just right) like a slightly overengineered blaster.

The rest would be simple programming. Where was that datapad.

***

//...//

Yes, that had been Qui-Gon’s reaction, verbatim. 

As a Force entity, the Master’s ability to blush was about on a par with Irdak’s own resolutely pale skin, but the slight widening of Qui-Gon’s eyes had been very gratifying. Followed by some interesting discussion about the finer points of tentacles (or, as the case may be, the blunter ones which were usually more fun) that they both agreed would stay under the shroud of secrecy. Or father-ish-son-ish confidentiality. Or really, anywhere where Obi-Wan wouldn’t find out.

//I _will_ want to be around for the premiere of that little thing. Just to watch Obi-Wan combust.//

“I will make sure you’re alerted. Speaking of which, where have you been these days? I don’t see you moping around the family quarters much any more?”

Amusement flickered in the Force. //Would you believe me if I told you I spend a lot of time lost in a good book these days?//

“Depends. What are you reading?”

//I’m not. I’m… frantically scribbling in the margins every time it comes out to be charged. And then hanging around the ventilation shaft listening to the response.//

Irdak looked up from his work, shocked. “You’re talking to _Dooku_? And here I thought we were safe from him in that Force-shielded cell.”

//Well… see above for what passes for talking in our case. It’s more like writing each other letters, although I’m glad I managed to convey to him early on that he can just talk out loud and I can hear him, even though I can’t get into that infernal cell they’re keeping him locked up in.//

“I wouldn’t call that infernal. Not given his Force powers.” Irdak shuddered and had to pause in his work to wrap his arms around himself, as much to warm himself as to remind himself where he began and ended.

//For someone like him, this is torture of the cruelest kind. He’s known the Force all his life, and has expanded his communion with it over the decades to the point that I can’t even begin to imagine what being cut off from it must feel like… like missing limbs, probably. Several limbs.//

“But he’s using the Force to harm people!” Irdak’s frown was thunderous, and it was only too quick to bring back the piercing headache of Geonosis and the aftermath. Disturbingly-colored auras danced on his worktop, and he didn’t dare think about how his feet felt. “Have you _seen_ the Dark Side, Qui-Gon?”

//I have.// A pause that contained more warmth than a moment of soundlessness inside Irdak’s mind had the right to. //We all have, and most of us are kept shielded from it for that very reason. The Jedi are very protective of their own. Sometimes too protective, at the expense of experience. We have become blind to the Dark Side, Irdak. And to an extent we are to blame for that. We have blinded ourselves.// 

“Given what the Dark Side did to me, I would be happy never to look at it again,” Irdak replied. “And I don’t care if that makes me a bad Jedi.”

//It doesn’t,// Qui-Gon assured him. //Dooku’s philosophy, from what he’s been telling me, takes a different approach though. Definitely not the Jedi approach. Consider, if you will, training your eyes to be able to handle the Dark Side.//

Irdak shook his head. “Golden, planet-eating Sith eyes? No, thank you.”

The Force smiled Qui-Gon’s smile. //Not any more. See, the Sith turned out to be a dead end for him too. And I believe him in that, though I am currently the only one, it seems. Attempting to kill him sealed the deal for him... But even before that, it appears he wanted to be a Sith much less than he wanted to break up the Jedi - //

“By breaking Jedi?”

//By breaking off Jedi, it seems. His ultimate goal, from what I understand so far, is to break up the Jedi Order as it exists. In his mind the Jedi have gone astray, and I must admit, I can see his point to an extent. And yes, he used you… he used what he perceived to be a raw, unformed version of me... to get to Obi-Wan. And maybe convince him of the error of his ways.//

“Then why this whole Separatist business? Seems an awful lot of effort to pick off a few Jedi?”

//I think that may more or less have fallen into his lap, and trust me on this, but Master Dooku is not one to pass up an opportunity to strike at the Republic. In his view, we have all become corrupt by serving the Senate, or, as he puts it, corrupt politicians, rather than the Force. And that is usually the lead-in to a rant I have been privy to several times now… the whole attachment thing. A thorn in his side especially since to him, Obi-Wan and I are both family. And, by extension, you.//

“I suppose… we are. Although I really don’t know how I feel about having this one in my family, Qui-Gon.”

//Understandable. But ultimately, he is. Along with me. And Obi-Wan. And Anakin.//

“Well… yees. Being a family has been good for us,” Irdak conceded slowly. His skin was finally feeling a little less clammy, and he could feel his feet again.

//It has,// Qui-Gon agreed. //And he agrees with us on that. But for an Order set in its ways for millennia, it’s infinitely hard to change course. Hard to give up the position it has carved for itself, as a power center without outside considerations. Without family attachments. Besides, take, just for a moment, an outsider’s view of who is leading the Order. Yoda has been set in his ways for literally centuries - and he is a total singleton...//

Irdak had to suppress a wince at the thought of imagining Yoda in the intimate embrace of _anyone_. “Point taken.”

//And Mace Windu is deadly afraid of the Dark Side. More so, I dare say, than you are.//

“Really.” Irdak’s voice was toneless, the weight of thought and implication making his bones leaden. All the buoyancy of knowing wrong from right had been suddenly leached from him. _Damn you, Qui-Gon._ “What do you think will happen to him?” he asked dubiously. “Dooku, I mean. What will the Jedi do?”

//I don’t know, to be honest. His hope, I think, is for some kind of exile, that’s if he manages to escape capital punishment or another attempt on his life. Knowing the Jedi, they may force him to give up his Force sense, which has been unheard of in centuries and requires a ridiculous amount of consensus and ceremony, but is a theoretical possibility. Whatever it is, his career seems to end here. Possibly his life. And he is looking very much to pass on his legacy. And even I have no idea how to get his voice heard in a way that is not going to cause immediate backlash.//

“You would take up Dooku’s cause?” Irdak sounded resigned more than horrified.

//Some of his thoughts need a voice, Irdak. But as an imprisoned renegade and a ghost, we are not exactly loud enough to be heard by the Council. And he’s definitely still his old self on that point, at least.// A sad snort, and an incongruous bloom of that lopsided Jinn smile. 

“What?” Irdak frowned. There was more, clearly, and he couldn’t _not_ listen to Qui-Gon, no matter how hard it was for him to follow.

//When I told him, in my last written missive, that I don’t remember him ever holding my voice in high esteem even when we were Master and Padawan, he had the temerity to reply in actual writing. I briefly considered dropping something unpleasant-smelling down the air vent.//

Irdak blinked, headache still lurking in the background but the buzzing auras around his scattered droid parts mercifully faded. “What did it say?”

//‘That’s because you have ceased trying to use it to sing, Padawan.’//

***

In the end, Padme had resorted to going to the physical Jedi Archives. It had just been easier that way, and she found herself much more comfortable with and capable of convincing living breathing Archivists that she as the junior Senator for Naboo was interested in learning about the Sith, with special reference to the fact that one of that elusive and near-mythical order had been rumored to have surfaced on her very own home planet scarcely a decade ago. 

From there, it had been a straightforward if arduous climb up the limbs of reference trees, from what was known of the brief life of Sith apprentice Darth Maul to the history of the Sith in general, and the life and times of the man she now suspected of being the second Sith apprentice to show his face: Count, formerly Jedi Master, Dooku. Not surprisingly, the files on him were abundant, and curated with a special diligence that surprised her given that he had, apparently, left the Jedi Order some years ago. Which made it several years before he resurfaced as a Separatist leader and purported Sith.

Things became a little clearer when she finally achieved an audience with the Master Archivist herself, who appeared to be keen to hear what she had to say about Yann Dooku. 

For a start, that had been the only time she had heard the man’s first name actively used by a living voice or an archive recording.

She had explained about Dooku’s claim, passed on through Master Kenobi, that the Sith master was to be found in the Senate; she had alluded to the recent attempt on Dooku’s life within the very confines of the Jedi Temple, which according to semi-public-record witness statements had been made by a Dathomiri assassin who matched the description of an unnamed patient who had been taken in by the Temple’s community med team only hours before that, after falling from a great height at an office building in the Senate district.

Jocasta Nu’s eyebrows rose sharply, and a curt gesture spirited her away into a quiet pod ostensibly designed for reviewing audio records. 

“I must say I am astonished, Senator, as to the nature of your sources. Some of this should not be public record… or accessible to non-Temple entities.”

“Family,” Padme replied evenly, “can be useful sometimes. The rest is confidential. Obviously.”

“Obviously,” Jocasta repeated. “Though I fail to see what the thrust of all this is.”

“The office building,” Padme replied. “The one that our Dathomiri Jane Doe fell from.”

“Well?”

“I know it. It’s a Senate building.” She took a deep breath. “I don’t like this myself one bit but… this ‘Sith in the Senate’ theory may have merit to it. And the answer may be much, much closer to home than I would like.”

Jocasta scratched her nose, thinking. Before she could formulate a reply, the young Senator had pressed on.

“Do you think it makes sense to alert the Council, Master? I wouldn’t want to cause undue alarm, but I also cannot shake the idea that the recent Sith activity may somehow be targeted at, or connected to… my senior co-Senator. And Supreme Chancellor of the Republic.”

“Leave it to me,” Jocasta replied firmly. “I’m getting good at prying ears open up there. And you’re… family with Master Kenobi as well, yes? Good. Involve him too. He’s a good ear, and a good voice. We will get this looked into. For your family and... mine.”

“ _Your_ family?” Padme looked doubtful. The formidable Master Archivist considered herself part of a family?

“Not officially, and not in a long time, but… proximity has rekindled some odd old feelings, yes. Though I have become quite accustomed to life without the company of skinny contrary males.”

Padme laughed involuntarily. “Nice way of putting it. I should remember that. Not that I have… I mean…”

“We understand each other,” Jocasta replied sharply. “We live with our men being out of reach, and we are no less capable for it. Keep in touch with Master Kenobi and his Pada- sorry, Knight Skywalker. I will handle the Council, and call you in when it’s time.”

“Thank you, Master.”

“Any time, Senator.” _Sister_ , something whispered, and Padme dismissed it almost out of hand. If only for thoroughly getting the age difference wrong. 

_Grandmother, more like. Still, the thought counted. Family._

***

It was the incessant rain more than anything that had started to wear him down. Going outside was anything from wildly unpleasant to actually dangerous depending on current weather conditions and the duration of one’s stay outside the climate-controlled, stilt-mounted Kaminoan colonies, perched as they were precariously above the perpetually storm-tossed oceans of the planet. 

On the one hand, Obi-Wan found it easy to understand that a civilization such as the Kaminoan had felt impelled to scientific greatness, purely because there was so little else to do on Kamino. On the other hand, he seriously doubted the wisdom of settling on a world like Kamino in the first place.

And he would be stuck here for however long it took to try and deprogram thousands of clones.

On the upside, the comm connections were state of the art, and once he had worked out the time difference between him and Irdak, he had been able to make contact and even get a grainy, almost-monochrome moving image of his lover, and more importantly, hear his voice. 

Still, that filled less than an hour of each rotation, and the actual work he had been sent here to do, along with a contingent of eight other Jedi, hardly required his full attention. The clones were self-sufficient in their training routines and limited social activities, milling about the facility until their time had come to be deployed. Or, as the case may be, deprogrammed. 

With a sole outside scientist at the helm of that operation, guard duty was not overly demanding either, and while Zan Arbor was equipped with a meticulously scrubbed and vetted laboratory space and supervised by both a Kaminoan science officer and at least two Jedi at any given time, she seemed to want to keep her head down and get this work done as quickly as possible in order to enjoy the conditional release that was riding on the success of this project. 

It was therefore not surprising that the only courtesy she showed Obi-Wan when he insinuated himself into another Jedi’s duty rotation was a short grunt of acknowledgement. She didn’t even look up from her work as Obi-Wan nodded to the bored-looking Mon Cal Knight who would, in all probability, actually enjoy being out in the abysmal Kaminoan weather, and who gratefully slipped out of the lab.

“Don’t bother introducing yourself, Jedi,” Zan Arbor said curtly, eyes fixed resolutely on whatever was under her microscope. “I know who you are.”

Obi-Wan cleared his throat, caught off-guard for a split second, then sat down on one of the chairs arranged thoughtfully around the corridor-side perimeter of the long laboratory, tucking his hands into the sleeves of his outer robe. “Well, we _have_ met, haven’t we?”

“Regrettably. You were the target of a failed project of mine.”

Obi-Wan’s eyebrows rose. “I wouldn’t call him _failed_ by any measure.”

“I take it you’ve been keeping track of his… progress in the world then, Master Jedi?”

“One could say that, yes.” Quietly, Obi-Wan pushed back his sleeve and ran a finger over the makeshift bracelet of hair and wire. 

That got her attention more thoroughly than a scream and a drawn lightsaber would have. Pushing her rolling stool off with one booted foot, she casually scooted over to inspect Obi-Wan’s wrist.

“Sentimental,” she observed coolly. 

“Worthy,” Obi-Wan replied. 

Zan Arbor snorted. “Man alive, those awful dreadlocks though. I swear he did that just to spite me. Always aping our Zabrak lab tech, the ingrate.” She shook her head. “I mean, look at that - _beads_ in his hair.” She poked at the tarnished brass bauble clamped around the strand of tightly matted hair. “And he’s barely more Zabrak than you or I, the idiot. Sorry,” she looked up with uncharacteristic openness in her face, “didn’t mean to get my nutritive solution all over your memento. Give me a second - there.”

She reached over, picked up a swab from an array of them on her worktop, and wiped the bead clean. “There. Beautifully decontaminated. I bet he wouldn’t want any trace of my touch on any part of you. Or himself.” The last words were almost a sneer. 

“He doesn’t speak of you any more, if that’s any consolation,” Obi-Wan offered diplomatically.

Zan Arbor grimaced. “He wasn’t special, you know. One of many, in fact.”

“I was wondering that,” Obi-Wan said cautiously.

“Hah. Tell you a secret, he didn’t even merit a name for the first year or so. He was just Sample 17, and fuck knows I wasn’t banking on _this one_ to be the one to pull through because he expressed horns on that thick skull of his. Can you even picture that? Not even a full-blooded Zabrak is born with horns. Utter rogue gene, and fuck knew what else was lurking under that bone-pale skin. Not my favorite, Sample 17. Of course then he had to go and stubborn himself into surviving, and by the time I’d given up hoping for a better one he was running around the lab and partway into speech development.” She paused for effect. “Which is why I knew him as Senneen.”

“Senneen?” Obi-Wan repeated the name almost reverently. _This was Irdak’s birth name?_

Zan Arbor shrugged. “Baby-talk for ‘seventeen’. He’d picked up on the fact that we were calling him that. If that makes him special, be my guest.” She turned back to her work, evidently finished with her side of the conversation. 

“Why Qui-Gon, though?” Obi-Wan asked.

She did not turn back to him, but her voice gained several notches in volume. “Because _he_ was special. Powerful Force user. And available. And I knew you would come for him, with that bond of yours. Because, Jedi Kenobi,” and here she wheeled her stool around to direct her microscope glare at him once more, “I can’t seem to shake you off, and you’re bad news every time.”

“Apologies.” Obi-Wan lowered his gaze for a second in place of a bow. “I can send another Jedi to take over supervision duties if that makes your work on our behalf easier.”

“I would appreciate that,” she replied, shoulders relaxing minutely. Then, she reached out a hand. “To never meeting again in this life, Jedi Kenobi.”

He returned the scientist’s firm handshake and had to will himself not to match her frown. “The Order appreciates your service,” he said.

She turned away with a disgusted snort and busied herself with her samples once more.

The door had barely shut on Obi-Wan when another swab quietly slipped across the palm of her hand and joined its twin in a pair of sterile containers, no different in appearance from the rest of the Kaminoan lab equipment, but thrumming with promise. 

***

Really, she should have thought of this method far earlier. Then again, hindsight was always infallible, and at least this time around she already knew her way into the Temple’s air duct system. 

And she had a mostly-functional hip, which was a definite bonus. The amount of drugs required to keep her pain to a subjectively tolerable level was nowhere near enough to impair her functioning. Not that it took an awful lot of brain power or aim to lob a gas grenade through a vent that hadn’t even been properly repaired yet since her first attempt a few days ago.

_Let’s see you shout your way out of this one, old man._

The grenade landed on point, releasing its colorless, odorless cargo with a soft hiss. By the time the man in the cell had fully noticed its presence, it had already begun to cloud his senses, and she watched in fascination as he clamped his long bony fingers around the small metal casing as if that could somehow stem the miasma of gas that was slowly but surely displacing the oxygen in his blood, robbing him of his senses one by one. 

His voice had been the first to go, strangled gasps for breath replacing the authoritative roar that had foiled her last attempt. _Rest in peace, old man._

Of course, she knew better than to wait until the gas had filled the cell completely. Spillover was not something she was comfortable risking, but with no more noises coming from below, she was more than comfortable chalking this one up as a success and getting the hell out of here. 

Which is how Asajj Ventress, assassin extraordinaire and heir presumptive to the title of Sith apprentice, completely failed to notice the din that was breaking out outside Dooku’s cell, where objects had started randomly flying at the locked cell door until a spooked guard had unlocked it to check what all the ruckus was about, and promptly passed out.

Moments later, Jedi with breathing apparatus had barged in and found the cell’s inhabitant barely alive. One of them had to wipe her visor twice before she realized that the blue glow she was seeing was neither an aftereffect of the gas nor a hallucination.

//To the Healers. Oxygen, now.//

***

In an unassuming office building in the Senate district of Coruscant, a message pinged on an unassuming comm terminal advising of a mission successfully completed. A pair of hands steepled over a desk almost out of habit, and a pair of pale lips smiled.

_This one might just prove herself to be worthwhile. And if not - there are other assassins out there looking for work._

***

In the emergency receiving bay of the Healers’ Ward, skilled hands divested a haggard but regal old man of his clothes and shoved a breathing mask over his face. Vitals were monitored, drip lines laid, and Healer Che stood aside, frowning as if she was listening to thin air. 

“I understand the connection,” she finally said, her face sorrowful. “Let me be the one to get him though.”

***  
“Why me? What on earth makes you think I want anything to do with this man?” Irdak’s professional Healer mien was quite thoroughly shattered, and the fact that he appeared to be yelling at thin air while his supervisor stood beside him with what she hoped was a calming hand on his shoulder only made it worse.

//Like it or not… you’re the closest thing to me that’s available. And alive, I mean.//

“I fail to see why that makes me any better than any of the dozens of expert healers in this Temple.” Whenever he wasn’t talking, his lips were a thin line, and Qui-Gon cringed visibly at the sight.

//Midichlorians aren’t considerate, Irdak. And yours remember being bonded to his. One push of life force from you is worth the work of several other healers.// A spectral sigh. //Believe me, I know what I’m asking of you.//

“I don’t think you do,” Irdak replied flatly. “You _loved_ him, didn’t you? For shame.”

//No, Irdak. For a great many other things. Things that slumber inside that head while he is unconscious - and, yes, unable to use any of his powers to harm anyone. To the Sith, he is dead. To us, he is an opportunity.//

“And a patient,” Healer Che cut in. “I will initiate Force healing with Healers Erid and Ib, then. And ready the collar for afterwards. We can hardly afford to wait.”

“No,” Irdak said quietly. “I will do it. This is on you, Qui-Gon. Don’t leave my side now.”

//Never. And I thank you more than words can express.//

***

The blue glow stayed true to his word, and Irdak gratefully leaned into its phantom warmth as he recovered from what had, thankfully, turned out to be a relatively mundane if intense Force healing session that had nevertheless left him feeling drained, the residual adrenaline zinging around his veins with a hollow echo.

For once, he did not feel the need to utter any words to convey what he was feeling, and he felt no urge to hear Qui-Gon’s warm voice in his head. The Force was thick and rich here in the Temple Gardens, and it sustained him for the time being, slowly filling his limp senses with its exuberant colors.

The blue dripped down from the distant Coruscant sky, filtered through a haze of smog and transparisteel, but still undeniably there, trickling slowly into the wispiest of the currents in Irdak’s mind.

The indigo pooled in Qui-Gon’s eyes, mirrors of his own and glowing with what may have been pride, it was hard to tell. What mattered was that it carried, and Irdak gratefully stretched out on his back and let it hold him.

The green - well, the green was everywhere, and he let it soak into his soul until he felt sated and spongelike and almost ready to fall asleep on the spot. The possibility of waking up with a root system growing from his tattoos was far less remote than it should have been, and he couldn’t bring himself to mind. The Force was the second best thing to a real embrace he could get. And, given how Obi-Wan was several star systems away, it was the best he had.

Several hours later, a more than slightly drowsy Irdak struggled into enough of a vertical position to get himself to his bed. Slightly behind him, a dutiful blue glow followed.

Farther behind him, a vaguely human-sized and newly lifeless patch of vegetation heaved a sigh of relief and began the slow appeals process to the Force.

***

In a laboratory on Kamino, a small patch of cells was coaxed into growing, at several times the natural pace, encouraged along by optimum nutrition and the kind of patiently-perfected Kaminoan technology that would eventually slow growth to what would be perceived as double speed over most of the useful part of the product’s lifespan.

One small patch of cells, growing almost visibly under the microscope. Only enough for a single shot, but it was a promising start. Once inside the cloning vat, it would thrive among its peers.

And the fact that all human fetuses looked alike only helped.


	5. Water Column

Jenna Zan Arbor was professionally annoyed.

The biochip had resisted her best efforts at decoding its actual content, which irked her no end. She had been able to ascertain that it was indeed set up to respond to a specific verbal activation command, but without the ability to decode the fiendish level of encryption in the actual module, neither she nor her Jedi keepers had any way of finding out what the execution of ‘Order 66’ would have meant. 

The Jedi Healers had reduced their one autopsy sample to protein soup in trying, and ethical concerns were preventing her from just chopping a series of them out of the subjects’ brains and brute-forcing them with whatever sequencing power this forsaken waterball of a planet had available. 

The _Jedi’s_ ethical concerns, that was. Not hers.

Still - her brief had not been to determine the nature of the biochip’s content, much though it tickled her scientific curiosity. Her job was to summarily block access to it, which, once the verbal trigger had been identified, had been child’s play. 

The only drawback was that the necessary psychosurgical procedure had to performed on each of the clones individually, and even with several willing and qualified Kaminoan technicians available to assist, the Jedi insisted on supervising every single one of them, which even with rotating shifts and Kaminoan efficiency meant that it would take weeks to deprogram every single one of the boys and young men, and then send them on their way to whatever future had been determined for them by the powers that be. Last she heard, they were earmarked for a variety of law enforcement and civil service functions in the City, with only a small security force lapped up by the Jedi themselves. 

At least they were docile patients, utterly accustomed to doing what they were being asked to do; keeping count of every single one of them when their faces were all infuriating alike though had started wearing on her patience quickly. 

Whenever she could, she rested her eyes and brain by taking a walk around the facility, away from the half-grown army of earnest clones and through the stark landscape of the Kaminoans’ current projects, floating as they were in rows upon rows of clear pale blue vats.

The Kaminoans’ current projects, and her own.

She’d found herself annoyingly rusty after 20 years, especially given that she spent over 15 of them not being allowed anywhere near a laboratory, and the equipment had been inadequate for her purposes to say the least. Then again, it had not been impossible to finagle what was after all a cloning facility into permitting the rough separation and deletion of her own DNA from the paltry skin cell samples, and it had yielded barely enough for a single artificially boosted zygote to be filled with the promise of her old dream, all under the Jedi’s unsuspecting noses.

Well, a version of her old dream. It would appear the Kaminoans had cornered the market in terms of ‘army of superhumans’ in the last 20 years.

Taking what shortcuts she needed, and splicing the rest together with saliva and stubbornness, she had set her goals closer to home. And a Force-sensitive slave would still be fascinating company in what was now an assured retirement in reasonable comfort and, most importantly, freedom. Under Jedi supervision, most likely, but she knew enough about the Jedi to know they would not deny her a household staff, provided they didn’t have to pay for them. 

A little over halfway into the projected timeline of the clone deprogramming project, her walks now a steady part of the routine that no longer raised eyebrows, Jenna Zan Arbor found herself foiled by nature once more, and it took considerable effort not to smash the cloning vat and swear off chasing her dream for good. 

The product, regrettably, without the constraint of years of expertise, had reverted to what seemed to be the default for longevity and persistence: the female. Along with another seemingly ineradicable trait of this particular strain that had taken her 16 samples last time around before giving up.

This time she had _one_. And she was going to see it live, even if it was only to kill it with her own hands if it turned out to be another failure.

***

“Are you sitting comfortably?”

Obi-Wan frowned at the small holographic projection of his uncommonly fully-dressed lover. Typically, their comm calls would be late in the evenings Irdak’s time, which meant he was usually clad in little more than a profusion of tattoos, and occasionally a pair of shorts or a wrap to protect his private parts while working with solder or hot cooking oil as the case may be. 

Today, Irdak was wearing a pair of black pants, and what looked suspiciously like a Jedi tunic.

“Uh… yes. I’m alone, if that’s what you’re insinuating. Is that my tunic?”

The small Irdak grinned. “Given how rarely I wear it, it might as well. But no, this is the one you got me when I first moved in. Yours would have been slightly too short, love.”

“Brat.”

“At your service.”

“I might take you up on that,” Obi-Wan replied playfully. “Seeing as you’re apparently reverting to lamentable clothing habits when left to your own devices.”

A full-throated laugh, and Irdak’s mouth expanded into a chasm of happy pixels. “Speaking of my own devices… that’s half the reason I’m giving you a fashion show, love. Just wouldn’t have felt right without the tease factor.” With that, he ran a hand down the front of his tunic, effortlessly parting the loosely tied front and letting it fall open. 

When his other hand sent a Force nudge in the direction of whatever was holding the comm unit’s camera up, Obi-Wan got an eyeful.

The pants were of a similar vintage to the tunic, and definitely dated back to Irdak’s original profession. Obi-Wan distinctly remembered him wearing them when they had first… connected intimately. There had been a plug involved, and it had made way for Obi-Wan’s heated flesh without the need to remove those deviously open-crotch pants. The memory sent a pleasant jolt of warmth to his own groin, and Irdak’s own slender cock was already standing at attention, only adding to the seductiveness of a half-dressed Irdak posing shamelessly for the camera. 

“Tease,” Obi-Wan confirmed softly, spreading his own thighs a little wider to give himself room to grow as it were. “So… am I to understand you’re a bounty hunter tonight? Out for his Jedi prey?”

Irdak laughed. “That’s one possibility. Although,” he moved his face closer to the cam until he almost nudged it with his horns. “...that’s not a blaster, Master.”

With that, he scrambled up on the bed, right hip angled towards the cam to show off what looked to all intents and purposes like a beautifully engineered thigh holster: two straps made of something dark and flexible, with a bright metallic rail running down the center of each of them, and holding, on those rails, a squat object that, from the distance Obi-Wan was at, still looked to all the world like a sidearm of some kind. 

Irdak smiled wickedly and zoomed in to show his hand caressing the straps cinched tight around his long black-clad thighs, running appreciative fingertips along the smooth rails before closing around the weapon attached to them. And pressing a few strategically-concealed control buttons. 

The object came to life with a dutiful mechanical whir. Slowly, its movement matching Irdak’s own as he turned his wickedly exposed butt towards the cam, it traveled along the rails, away from its innocent sidearm position on the outside of Irdak’s thigh until it had reached the opposite extreme of its circuit, pointing ominously at his opening. 

“Prepare for liftoff,” Irdak murmured intently, then gasped as the device exploded in a sudden flurry of movement. From the blaster-like casing, a thin flexible tube emerged on some kind of jointed structure like a flimsy and extremely inappropriate droid arm. Its tip was dark and shaped like a small bulb, and yes, it was going exactly where Obi-Wan expected it to. And staying there only for a brief moment, coming away with a soft ‘pop’ and a trail of something clear and sticky oozing from it. 

Before it had even fully folded itself away, the skinny droid arm was eclipsed by the main casing of the device not so much opening as... growing. Its outer shell split into a series of flexible rings that made the whole thing look rather like a mechanical tentacle. And it, too, knew with alarming certainty where it was going.

Its entry was perfectly aimed, perfectly lubricated, and perfectly merciless as it plunged into Irdak, drawing a heartfelt groan of pleasure from him. “Ohfuckyes,” he moaned when he had caught his breath enough to be verbal again. “Can you see, love? See what I want you to do to me when you’re back?”

Obi-Wan swallowed thickly. “I can see… that I have easily the most devious lover in the entire galaxy. Ooph.” He took a deep breath and adjusted himself, already achingly hard. “I, uh, appreciate the view. Wow.”

A warm chuckle vibrated across the comm line. “Wait until you see it in action, Obi-Wan.” Irdak gathered his left knee under himself, right leg still stretched out long, presenting his rump shamelessly, giving Obi-Wan the best view in the house of Irdak’s tender hole stretched on a slick mechanical tentacle. “Activate Program One,” he said, voice quivering with arousal. 

The tentacle pulsed, twitched for a second as if to get its bearings, then retracted its ringed body until it had pulled almost all the way out, only to explode back to its full length and thrust into Irdak with a vengeance, anchored securely to the rails around his thigh. And then it did it again. And again. Irdak keened with every hard thrust, and less than a minute into this mesmerizing ballet of mechanics and flesh, Obi-Wan caught sight of Irdak’s fingertips as he reached back to tug on his balls which had drawn up perilously close and which, under the onslaught of a perfectly sized and powered _fucking machine_ , gave up and convulsed in Irdak’s hand, shooting a hot jet of seed out onto the bedspread.

“Ohfuck… oh, oh. That… was not supposed to… ngh…”

Obi-Wan laughed, his own voice thick with need. “The device beats its maker. A story as old as civilization. Although you’ve added a whole new chapter, my love. ‘The device beats its maker into a glorious twitching pulp’.”

“Bastard,” Irdak laughed, hips still pumping into the device’s unerring rhythm. “It’s you watching that makes it… oooph. Yeah. Anyway, I’m certain I’ve got another one in me. If you can stand it.”

“I,” Obi-Wan purred, “am mesmerized. And already scheming as to how to put that thing to good use. Seeing as it’s hands-free.”

“I am quaking in my nonexistent boots,” Irdak replied breathily. “You know I love a good length of rope, love.”

“You inherited that from Qui-Gon,” Obi-Wan growled. “But picture, if you will, being held down by just a couple more of those extremely pretty and flexible straps. And then fucked mercilessly until you beg for me to slow it down.”

“I might need to switch out the battery for a more powerful one,” Irdak quipped.

“Brat.”

“At your service.”

“So you keep saying. Got one more in you, have you?”

Irdak grinned and rolled onto his back, gripping the back of his left knee and showing off where the mechanical tentacle was still gently fucking in and out of him. “Activate Program Four.”

The tentacle stilled and withdrew, the small droid arm dutifully added more lubricant to Irdak’s already comfortably stretched hole, and then the tentacle expanded once more. 

In length, as before, and in girth.

Its tip flared to an obscene thickness as it pushed into Irdak, stretching him and forcing him to accept all of it into his body, all the way down to the thinner but still sizeable stem that flexed and undulated, pushing the fat head deep inside Irdak and raking its ring-ribbed surface across his sweet spot. 

Words failed him almost immediately, the string of increasingly urgent syllables of need and pure carnal joy almost as fascinating to watch falling from his lips as it was fascinating to watch the tentacle work its way in and out of Irdak with unerring precision, wrenching a bone-deep moan from him every time. Obi-Wan thought he could see the bulge of it moving inside his lover, but dismissed that as a likely artifact of the comm connection.

As it was, he had brought the tiny holographic Irdak up to his face until he could almost taste the static of the projection, bathe his senses in the desperate lust-soaked sounds he was making, and wish he was closer. The scent of Irdak in the throes of passion was easily one of his favorites, and he could tell from the slight sheen of sweat on the tattooed skin as well as the wet spot on the bedspread that the room would be positively _reeking_ of Irdak’s pleasure. 

As it turned out, that thought was what tipped him over the edge, and the hand that had been lazily stroking his throbbing cock clamped down hard, squeezing a choking orgasm out of him that threatened to black him out completely in its intensity. 

He just managed to put the comm’s projector down on the nearest safe surface when Irdak lost his battle of wills against his own body and screamed his release, each moan punched out of him by the incessant thrusts of the device rougher and softer than the last, until, with the last of his voice, he managed to gasp, “Deactivate.”

The cam floated down gently on whatever _other_ device was controlling that, until it settled on the floor, showing an insect’s-eye view of a wrecked and sated Irdak, head and arms hanging over the side of the bed, a beatific smile on his face. 

“...good for you too?” Irdak drawled lazily. 

“Force yes. I have… quite a mess to clean up here.”

“Heh. And no, I meant that. This thing is gonna be good for you too. I get to watch. Jedi Master Kenobi fucked into a pulp by a _droid_ , heh.”

“I will have you know,” Obi-Wan argued somewhat breathlessly, “that I consider this thing an extension of your devious brain, my horny one.”

“Oh good. Then be prepared to be brain-fucked into oblivion the moment you set foot on Coruscant. As you can see, this thing can be worn over clothes. And I’m certain I could modify the lubricating arm to… gently slice its way through textiles. Can you imagine yourself standing on the shuttle from the spaceport, drawing your robe and your tattered control around yourself as my little device fucks you senseless right next to me? Because I certainly can.”

“Irdak… I… have no words.” Obi-Wan shook his head, torn between alarm and arousal at the image that bloomed in his head. 

“Good. That was the plan. Sleep well, my love.”

***

“Padme. That’s a rare surprise.”

Padme smiled diplomatically over the comm line. “Given how many voice messages I’ve left, I’d been wondering whether you had gotten yourself killed on your ostensibly boring mission, Master Kenobi.” Her expression softened. “Good to see you.”

“And you,” Obi-Wan replied, trying his best not to let on that it was well before dawn on Kamino and that the thing he had hastily draped over his shoulders was a blanket rather than a set of Jedi tunics. “What is so urgent, then, that it makes you leave strings of cryptic voice messages? Something wrong with Anakin?”

Padme shook her head, smiling. “Alive and well, I hear. He’s due to dock at Temple in a few days. I… don’t know how well you’ve been kept up to speed with political developments?”

“ _Political_?” Obi-Wan frowned. “Hardly at all, I imagine. If it doesn’t directly affect the Jedi, it’s apparently not considered worth wasting bandwidth on this far out. Which is to say, assume I know nothing.”

“Acknowledged,” Padme replied. “Might be a good idea to keep it that way, at least outwardly. I don’t think the rest of your contingent is privy to Council business, are they?”

“Are _you_?” Obi-Wan wasn’t sure he was comfortable with where this conversation was heading. What had the Council neglected to keep him informed of?

“I… may have forced my way in,” she admitted sweetly. “With the esteemed assistance of a certain Master Archivist. And a certain Master Jedi of the translucent blue persuasion.” 

She cast two quick glances sideways, then leaned in closer to her cam. “Rumors of a major Jedi investigation into the origins of the Separatist movement in general and the Clone Army in particular are consuming the Senate floor like wildfire.” She smiled wickedly. “There is talk of a vote of no confidence already. For misappropriating Senate authority on the unsavory side business of, oh, amassing a clone army for a war nobody had signed up for.”

“Wait - “

“Yes. With Dooku’s deposition scheduled for next tenday, the Supreme Chancellor has found himself in some hot water. Not to mention the fact that he had evidently assumed Dooku to be dead. And that in itself was fairly incriminating seeing as to the rest of the galaxy, Dooku was merely being held by the Jedi.”

“You mean to say _Chancellor Palpatine_ is the Sith in the Senate?”

“If there is one, he’d be the prime candidate, yes.” She paused. “That was a tough one for me to swallow too, seeing as I all but grew up in his supposedly benign shadow. But we’re trying our damnedest not to let the Sith angle cloud the delegates’ judgment, because you of all people probably know what it sounds like when you show up with stories of a shadowy religious order that does magical things in the shadows.”

Obi-Wan shook his head. “It sounds so charming when you say it, Senator.”

“Thank you, my Master-in-law.”

“Ouch.”

“Anyway,” she continued, “the Council is leaning hard on an investigation of the available data gathered from the raid on the Separatist summit. And, pleasant surprise, once you know where to look, this has the Supreme Chancellor’s fingerprints all over it, even without relying on Dooku’s testimony. His office has gone pretty much incommunicado but I suspect he’s spinning like mad behind closed doors. And not looking forward to the hearings.”

“Exciting times.”

“You can say that again,” she agreed. “Being the junior Senator from Naboo is suddenly the most glamorous and fascinating thing as far as the press is concerned. That’s why I’m hiding out in your quarters. In case you were wondering.”

Obi-Wan blinked. “I should probably issue a mandatory government health warning about Irdak’s cooking, then.”

“Oh, he’s fine.” She laughed. “And utterly uninterested in Galactic politics, which makes for a lovely change from the day job.”

“Yeah,” Obi-Wan muttered, “he’s demonstrated amply what he’s interested in these days. Force, I can’t wait to get back.”

“How much longer do you think?”

“Probably only a couple of days,” he said. “They’ve been roping in all the available Kaminoan techs, and it’s been getting noticeably quieter in here lately. I might be able to get myself booked on one of the transports leaving for Coruscant before all of this wraps up. Bunking with the clones, sort of thing. It’s not like Zan Arbor wants anything to do with me, so I’ve been reduced to supervising the Kaminoans for the last few tens.”

“That sounds… even less interesting.”

“Tell me about it. And as a bonus, you develop a monster crick in your neck from looking up at them.” He laughed sadly. “Be a Jedi, they said. It’ll be exciting.”

Padme laughed. “When they told me that being a politician was going to be reassuringly boring if I did it right, they weren’t exactly being truthful either.”

“Point,” Obi-Wan replied. “Anyway, I hope the actual Council sees fit to brief me on this eventually.”

“In all honesty, they’re probably in over their heads. Being asked to essentially run a Senate investigation with no advance notice is no mean feat. And that’s not even counting all the voices I’m already hearing looking to the Jedi for endorsement of a successor… it’s a mess.”

Obi-Wan nodded slowly. “Tell you what, I’ll get myself booked on the first transport out of here that is authorized to ship out the Jedi contingent. Might even beat Anakin home. And no, I won’t hold it against you if you shack up in the bedroom with him and refuse to see me.”

Padme giggled. “And I won’t hold it against you if you get yourself dragged to the bedroom by the scruff of your neck the moment you get home, _Master Jedi_.”

Obi-Wan groaned. “Family or politics - which is worse?”

“With _this_ family? It’s close. Also, no fair for a trained Jedi diplomat asking that question of a politician.”

“True,” Obi-Wan conceded. “What was I thinking, expecting honesty from a Senator?”

“Hey!”

“What?”

“See you in a few days, Obi-Wan. Comm if you’re delayed?”

“Thank you. Will do. And say hi to Irdak for me.”

“Will do. Padme out.”

***

He hadn’t been this way in several tendays, although to be fair, the concentric corridors of the Kamino cloning facility blurred together as much as the consecutive days he had been forced to spend here, supervising a criminal mastermind performing an essential function that may or may not have been key in preventing a galactic war.

A criminal mastermind who, for all her spine-chilling deeds of horror, had also inadvertently gifted him with the man she never even knew as Irdak. Obi-Wan couldn’t bring himself to detest her for that small spark of joy alone.

Wandering among the endlessly orderly rows of cloning vats, each silently and dutifully supporting the developing life inside, Obi-Wan felt almost nostalgic for a mission that for once had not involved getting shot at, chased down unsavory sewers, or talked to death by self-important diplomats. Now, with the halls emptying of the bustle of the Republic’s erstwhile Clone Army, all of them newly destined for a variety of civilian and policing functions in and around the City, he almost wished for the adventure.

The corridors were eerily quiet, only the bubble and whirr of machinery to keep him company. This far into the night cycle, not even the soft footfalls of the Kaminoan techs flitting about their work disturbed the hushed atmosphere, though somewhere in the distance he sensed the spark of a Force-sensitive presence, unnaturally bright in the muted blue air of the facility.

 _Probably another one of the Jedi making their last round,_ he thought, and then decided on a whim to head that way and reconnect with whoever it was and maybe spend the last few hours of his mission in companionable conversation about nothing of consequence.

When he got to the place where he had sensed the Force presence, his first reaction was confusion. There was nobody. Well, nobody except rows upon rows of clones quietly gestating, labeled neatly with their project number, planned date of decantation, supervising science officer, and genetic specifications - 

It glared at him like a spike to the forehead.

Floating calmly in the same nutritive solution as all its siblings, the clone shone brightly in the Force, making Obi-Wan’s eyes water as he attempted to decipher the meager and, he suspected, deliberately incomplete documentation on the vat’s viewscreen. Which ultimately, mattered not at all.

He had eyes with which to see, and a heart with which to feel.

He had whipped out his handheld comm with no regard for time zone or propriety, and definitely without waiting to regain control of his voice from what had effectively been a Force-punch to his chest. Delivered by a human fetus that looked, to Obi-Wan’s medically untrained eye, about ready to be born.

That looked, and felt, like it - she - should not have been possible to conceive in the first place, not with the tight supervision they had established, and surely not just from a handshake - 

And yet it - she - had.

When Irdak’s face appeared in hologram, bleary and sideways and lit by the bedside lamp, Obi-Wan had wordlessly turned the cam away from his face and pointed it at the child floating in its cocoon of neutral liquid support.

In Irdak’s hand, small and monochrome and grainy but unmistakable, a small human flickered into existence. A small human with a slightly oddly shaped skull. Oddly shaped in a way that made the roots of his horns tingle with something that was so alien to him he couldn’t decide whether to want to jump out of his skin or hug himself tightly. 

“Damn the Maker,” he breathed, finally. “We’re going to be fathers.”


	6. Spawn

**Assignment, Creche Master Biril - Conflict Resolution at an Elevation of Eighty-Eight Centimeters**

She _had_ been given the necessary briefing about this one, of course. The regular one, and then the confidential one about the child’s paternity and midichlorian make-up and the fact that given said paternity, the Jedi were not to let this one out of their sight. Keeping your Force-sensitives close was the order of the day, at long last, and Master Biril had nodded dutifully and responded that handling pint-sized Force-sensitives was what she did every single day.

Of course, that had hardly prepared her for a child that was so severely growth-accelerated still that she wound up going from the youngest in her cohort to the oldest with dizzying regularity. According to the time that had passed since her birth - well, decantation, technically speaking since she was apparently a clone of some sort - Biril would have expected her to be happily crawling around the creche, hugging people’s legs and gleefully smashing toys into the floor.

Instead, she was in her terrible twos. Or, judging from her physical development, significantly past that stage already. Not that it stopped her from being generally terrible.

Master Biril suspected that the other children had already formed the subconscious association of the girl’s name, Azdak, with trouble. Seeing as it was usually shouted at the top of a Creche Master’s lungs.

The most recent application had been almost a loving shout, and she would have avoided getting shouted at altogether if she had stopped at the earnest declaration, made to the face of a young Wookiee twice her height but half her age, that no matter what the Masters taught everyone, she had been made by Master Obi-Wan and Healer Irdak, and that was the truth because she felt it in her hearts.

Well, she would have avoided a stern talking-to if she had left it at that, and refrained from giving the incredulously laughing Wookiee youngling a bruise pattern that the Creche Masters had quickly learned to identify as the imprints of her still-not-broken-through horns.

**Assignment, Healer Irdak Jinnobi - Medically Necessary Supervision**

_Restlessness and pressure pain associated with horns breaking through,_ he recorded dutifully in the medical file, _akin to teething in most humanoid species._

He hesitated on the next sentence, not sure whether to make a note of the fact that this would have been considered significantly premature for even a full-blooded Zabrak, but then gave up as there would have been no suitably professional way of noting that she had almost certainly gotten that rogue gene from her father, who regrettably had no recollection of when his own horns had broken through.

Sighing, Irdak closed the file and let the datapad sink into his lap. The Healers’ Ward was no place to sit and watch your daughter sleeping, but it was the only place where he had the luxury to do so. The Jedi Council had thrown a collective fit at her mere existence, reprimanded everyone from her Maker to her unwitting fathers, and the measures put in place to secure her safety in the Light had been draconian. Understandable in part, given her accelerated growth and the necessity to keep her mind up to speed with her vigorously sprouting body; they were drilling her resolutely to make up for her compressed lifespan, always with the unspoken caveat in the background that given how susceptible to the Dark her father had been, they were absolutely not going to risk losing another Force-sensitive to the Dark Side. _Especially_ , whispered the unspoken threat in Master Windu’s voice, _since that would likely send Kenobi and Skywalker and Jinn after her. And Jinnobi._

In all honesty, it had taken a Force suggestion to get Azdak to sleep, but Irdak was getting better at those, and he enjoyed the few moments of intimacy he was allowed, even if that meant that occasionally one of them had to be unconscious for it.

_Azdak. Cross-current._ This time, the name had been his idea, though Obi-Wan had eagerly agreed. “Azdak, daughter of Irdak,” he had said reverently, and they had looked at the tiny blob of humanity with the wonder and trepidation of new fathers, knowing full well that she would likely grow up to learn to introduce herself as Azdak of the Jedi.

That had felt like mere days ago, and yet here she was, hip-height already to her taller father, small ivory-colored horns breaking through the faintly rosy skin she had clearly inherited from Obi-Wan’s side. He swabbed the slight sheen of blood and sweat from her brow, brushing a stray strand of hair out of the way. Brown and wiry, like his; her eyes had started out blue but were beginning to show flashes of Obi-Wan’s changeable color. 

She would grow up to be formidable, and Irdak hoped fervently that he would be around to witness it.

**Assignment, Master Obi-Wan Kenobi - Negotiations with the Closed of Mind**

“Anakin! What brings you to your old Master’s hovel?” Obi-Wan’s eyes crinkled in mirth, and he found himself swept off his feet by his considerably taller Padawan, now a full-blown Jedi approaching the end of his first year of Knighthood.

“Stopover between missions,” Anakin laughed. 

Obi-Wan raised an eyebrow. “In other words, Padme’s unavailable.”

“Yeah,” Anakin admitted. “Sorry. Didn’t want to make you feel like second choice, Master.”

“I’ll take it, Skywalker, I’ll take it. She’s doing the Force’s work.”

“You tell me… but I mean, really. Who could have foreseen him going civilian like that?”

“Civilian,” Obi-Wan replied sourly, “is too kind a term. Gone rogue is probably more like it, and scheming from wherever he’s set up his new base of operations. Too many worlds still refuse to accept the whole Clone Army narrative, no matter how much evidence we throw at them - I mean, that vote of no confidence passed with barely three votes to spare - and that’s not even bringing the Sith into it.” He laughed mirthlessly. “Tell a Senator there’s a Sith among them and they’ll either laugh at you or want to go join them out of spite.”

“And the succession? Sorry, I really have been offworld.”

“Good place to be.” Obi-Wan rubbed his forehead. The loyalists refuse to accept anyone but Palpatine as their Supreme Chancellor, citing that the vote of no confidence was engineered based on spurious facts… and the rest of the Senate seems to be looking at the Jedi with big round eyes waiting for an endorsement we’re nowhere near equipped to give.”

“Sounds like a right mess.”

“Perspicacious, Anakin.” Obi-Wan snorted. “And you might have a hard time getting through to Padme. All of the Senate has been assigned extra security after the incidents last month. And the one yesterday.”

“What happened?” Anakin looked troubled.

“Someone appears eager to pick off Senators, and whoever they are, they’re good at assassination. I have my suspicions but… evidence is hard to come by.”

“The Zabrak Sith lady who tried to kill Dooku?”

“Possibly.”

“Speaking of Zabraks, how is my disaster brother?”

“At work, probably scheming to get Azdak involved in some minor injury so he can cuddle her. I must admit that paternal instincts were not something I expected in someone who doesn’t even remember being a child.” Obi-Wan paused. “He seems to be handling it reasonably well though. And it’s definitely nice to be able to sleep through the night, knowing that she’s terrorizing the Creche Masters and not us.”

“About that… I may be in for a taste of that soon.” Anakin blushed. “Last time we had downtime together, we apparently… um. Got Padme pregnant.”

Obi-Wan’s eyes went wide. “Congratulations?”

“Yeah,” Anakin laughed, embarrassed but glowing. “I knew you’d understand. We’re happy, even though we don’t have the first idea about what we’re doing. Dorra is reading up on midwifery in her spare time apparently, and my mother… has threatened to move in with us.”

Obi-Wan blinked. “Might be a good idea given your busy schedules.” He shook his head. “Seems like every time I look away, the family grows. Well, welcome to your little one, whoever he or she may turn out to be. And… tea or brandy?”

“Brandy,” Anakin replied. “I feel like I might need fortification.”

**Assignment, Knight Anakin Skywalker - Security for a Senator and a Half**

It had taken surprisingly few twisted arms to arrange for the safety of Senator Padme Amidala and her unborn child under the watchful eye of Knight Skywalker, seeing as he already had ample experience working as her bodyguard. Moving them into the Temple had been almost an afterthought, ostensibly to make it easier for the sequestered Senator to access the medical care needed during her pregnancy, but tacitly also because she had family at Temple.

Said family included an apprentice Healer who had taken it upon himself to personally schedule all the prenatal examinations and perform those that did not require specialized gynecological knowledge himself. 

“Anything involving a scanner I can handle,” he had quipped, and then had to explain to the frowning stubby-horned child dogging his heels what a scanner was for and why the fat lady needed one.

“She’s got a little one growing inside her belly,” he had said, holding the girl’s unwavering gaze. “Uncle Anakin and she made one.”

“No.” Azdak’s small brows drew together in disgust. “That’s not how you do that.”

“Is too,” Padme cut in, laughing her silvery laugh. “When you’re human, anyway.”

“You’re human?” Azdak approached Padme’s gently rounded belly cautiously. “There’s a _human_ in there?”

“Sure is,” Padme answered. “And if you stick around for a bit and don’t get yourself thrown out of here by the healers, you’ll get to see the first picture of the little one.”

“Can I see?” Azdak pressed her hands against where Padme’s dress stretched over her belly, then, when no protest was forthcoming, pressed her small ear against Padme to listen.

“You’re sure you’re human?” she asked after a while, the frown line between her brows so like Obi-Wan’s that it made Padme grin involuntarily. “Because it’s got two hearts. Like Irdad.”

When the inappropriate laughter at Healer Irdak’s latest nickname had died down, and the hearts of the adults in the room had calmed down to their normal pace, and the interminably slow droid scan had attested to a healthy pregnancy and spat out a grainy three-dimensional image, the adults in the room had to admit Azdak had been right.

_Amend that. Security for a Senator and Two Halves._


End file.
